


Sing For Me

by CrescentMoonDemon



Category: Predators (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Other, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrescentMoonDemon/pseuds/CrescentMoonDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Solita first imagined Hell, the jungle wasn't what came to mind. But the demons hunting her are very real, and when she is captured by one she must ally herself with the imprisoned hunter to make it out alive. OC/Predator</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Please Note: This story dates back to 2011 and was written over the course of three years. Plans are underway to re-write this tale in its entirety to reflect the author's current writing capabilities. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

It can’t get any worse than this, Solita thought. No, wait, don’t say that or you’ll fucking jinx it. Shit, I hope it doesn’t get worse than this.  


Solita put her head back against the totem and wondered, _How the hell did it even come to this?_  


She was battered, bruised, soaked in sweat and blood that wasn’t hers, and she was fairly certain she’d broken something in her right hand. To top it off, her sense of reality was beginning to slip. Good God, that sounded wonderful right now. Anything to get out of this mess, to get out of this hellhole.  


Her last memory of home was tending sheep with her father on his ranch in Belize, trying to put her past behind her, to move on with her life and forget the atrocities of the war.  


Fourteen hours ago, she awoke in freefall with a parachute strapped to her back (what a rush). She narrowly avoided a chance to become a pancake on the jungle floor and promptly met up with a ragtag group of strangers: mostly soldiers of sorts plus a drug dealer, convict, yakuza, and a doctor, all armed except for her, equally disoriented and confused. No one could answer her questions, but common goals, like survival, have a strange habit of bringing people together on friendlier terms.  


Eleven hours ago, Solita ran for her life through booby-traps and nearly met her end with a barbed alien hound hell-bent on ripping her to pieces. Flushing her from the group, it moved in for the kill only to be called off by the sound of a strange whistle.  


Seven hours ago, Solita reunited with the others (after no small feat of running, hiding, and somehow surviving those four ungodly hours on her own) as they came face-to-face with a man, Noland, wearing one of the hunter’s masks, using their technology. Something in him had snapped over the time he’d been trapped on the planet. (God, did she envy him for that, right now.) It was on the old drilling platform where Noland lived that Solita came to the gut-wrenching revelation that she’d been fearing ever since arriving in this godforsaken jungle: the fact that she knew _exactly_ what was hunting them.  


Her mother spoke of them often when she was young. Solita grew up on bedtime stories of the demons who made trophies from men; demons that came back in the hottest summers in the hottest years. Her mother met one once and survived but only because she didn’t fight it; it only hunted strong prey, like the soldiers that took her captive that hot summer in Guatemala. Her mother obsessed over them since that day and learned what they were from the old stories. She uncovered ancient texts with translations of bits of their language and stories and taught it to Solita and her brother so they would be prepared. She taught them about the hunters and their destructive weapons and how they saw using heat. She was always drawing drew pictures of them: their powerful muscles and the masks they wore.  


Three hours ago, Solita awoke to the smell of smoke and Noland trying to kill them. He was a scavenger; he survived by salvaging what he could, whenever he could, from whatever he could. It didn’t matter who he had to kill to do it. That’s the first rule of survival: look out for number one. She had to admire his determination, even if he was out of his fucking mind.  


In their desperation to escape, they attracted one of the hunters. It got them free in the chaos but at the price of one of the group: the Russian martyred himself to take one of the hunters out with him. Solita became separated again in the caves. By the grace of God, she made it out through a crack in the rock before the fireball caught her.  


Two hours ago, she came to the bodies of the yakuza and a second hunter. Both were dead having killed each other in some unseen struggle for survival. The sight of the bodies undid what remained of her resolve and she gave in to the realization that she was not going to get out of this alive. She was going to die on this planet—killed by beings too monstrous for words.  


Solita was terrified by it, but she accepted it.  


She sang her Death Song for herself, for those lost, and for those unlucky enough to still be alive. Resolving herself to death, she sang of sorrow and fear and loss and welcomed the release it would bring her, but luck was not on her side that night. This was Hell, and her suffering had only just begun.  


Drawn to the sound of her voice, the final hunter stepped forward from the shadows. . . .  


Solita sat tied to a totem in their camp, hands bound and sitting in a mound of dirt, rocks, sharp sticks, and what she believed to be a bone shard digging in her thigh. Her clothes were shredded and filthy, bloodstained and grungy from the jungle and her struggle to survive. She stared bleakly into one of the many flames littering the campsite, thinking of her fate.  


It was going to use her a bait. That was the only logical explanation for why she was still alive. The hunter was going to use her to lure the remaining survivors into a trap to avenge its fallen comrades. That’s what she would do. What a way to go. But that mercenary hadn’t fall for any of the hunters’ traps, yet. He’d gone to great lengths to avoid that fate. If bait really was going to be her demise, Solita doubted to would work, and for some reason that made it even worse.  


She started to wonder how the others were doing. If any of them were even still alive or if they’d been killed already.  


_Lucky bastards,_ she thought. If they were dead then they were free. And she was here, left to rot in this would-be inferno.  


At least she wasn’t alone.  


To Solita’s initial surprise, when she first came to in the hunters’ camp and realized there was a fourth, chained to another totem as he was, she was more than a little freaked out. Especially because this one matched her mother’s descriptions to a tee. Unarmed and unmasked, this one was a prisoner. Like her.  


_How’s it feel now that the shoe’s on the other foot, huh, you sorry bastard?_  


Before Noland tried to kill them, Solita remembered him talking about a blood feud. There were two kinds of hunters, similar and yet different—“like dogs and wolves”—with one species bigger and stronger than the other. They hunted each other incessantly, trying to wipe the other from existence. It seemed this unfortunate soul had not been so lucky. Captured and caged as he was, he was humiliated in life and would likely be robbed of the honor of a glorious death. How could such a mighty beast have met such a fate, huh?  


Never before had Solita been so grateful for her mother’s obsession. Knowing such things about the hunters had given her a leg-up: provided a means of survival, no matter how minute. Solita felt bad, now, for thinking her mother was crazy all these years.  


But leg-up or no leg-up, it didn’t change the fact she was a captive. Held at the mercy of these merciless, pitiless _things_ , she’d be lucky if she made it to sunrise.  


A _thump_ and a low growl snapped her back to reality. She looked around, craning her neck every which way to see behind the totem, but there were too many obstacles to make anything out.  


_Where the fuck is it?_  


(Just because Solita accepted her fate, it didn’t mean she liked it.)  


A ripple danced across a bonfire nearby. Solita’s heart jolting and she tried to scoot for the opposite side of her totem, but the bonds kept her firmly in place. A flash of red streaked across her vision. She froze. Realization set in and she was staring down the tracking system of the hunter’s plasmacaster. Three red points illuminated the center of her chest.  


She swallowed once and waited for the shot that would put her out of her misery.  


It’s strange how impending death can make one suddenly more aware of the little things: the distant calls of the jungle buzzing in her ears; the heat of the sun on her face and the glare in her eyes; a line of sweat trickling through the grime caked to the side of her face. She smelled copper, salty and metallic in the back of her throat, musky with the smell of smoke. The grip of her bonds was sharper, the pain of a broken metacarpal more distinct, a sharp stick digging into her thighs, sweat stinging her eyes and chapped, dry lips.  


She’d always loved the smell of smoke. It reminded her of home: sitting around a bonfire in the backyard with her brother and parents, her father telling old stories from the tribe and about their ancestors until her mother chimed in with something to do with the hunters.  


Solita thought back to how distraught her mother had been when she said she wanted to join the army. Now, Solita understood why. It was going to be the end of her.  


Eyes closed, Solita waited for death to come. When it didn’t, she gazed up as the hunter materialized before her. A flurry of clicks and growls raised the hairs on the back of her neck. He crouched down before her and she pushed hard against the back of her totem. Far too close for comfort, he reached up and placed one large, dark, clawed hand over his mask and pulled it free with an ominous hiss.  


She felt her insides flip as he took it off.  


This hunter looked nothing like the other. His face was a blackish-gray with red in places, and he was hideous beyond all reasoning. With the lower tusks almost doubling the size of the upper two, and huge, grotesque teeth protruded from a pronounced jaw and chin; his piercing, ugly red eyes burned into her core until she feared she’d go mad at the sight of him.  


He cocked his head and roared, brandishing his teeth and the red lining of his mandibles. Loud and overpowering, the roar rattled her brain and shot her conscious mind to Hell, barely grasping to the most basic functions and concepts—like getting the fuck out of there. Her vision blurred. She felt her head starting to slump, but then she was back, and he was looking at her with the most evil stare she had ever seen.  


“Aren’t you going to kill me?” she finally said, wondering grimly what his twisted, predatory mind had in store for her.  


His mandibles twitched and clacked on contact, a systematic round of clicking sounding from somewhere behind them. The top tusks pulled in, and the lower ones flared out. It was a face she could only describe as some kind of a sadistic grin, amused at the very thought of all the ways he could kill this meager bag of flesh before him.  


But he had different plans for her.  


He brought his arm up and did a few things with the computer on his wrist consol, pushing buttons and moving a dial. It started playing a noise, fuzzy, indistinct, and difficult to make out. It was only when she picked up some choppy, garbled tune that she realized what it was. It was her. Singing. Singing about the fortunes of a dead man.  


“That’s. . . .” She looked at the consol, and then to his face, confusion momentarily outweighing the fear. He pointed to the computer and then jabbed the talon at her, growling impatiently. “Y-you want me to . . . to sing?”  


That couldn’t be right. Her mother hadn’t said anything about the hunters having an affinity for music. Then again, her mother hadn’t said anything about them wanting to kill each other, either.  


But then she had to think fast as he stood up, glaring down with evil, expectant eyes.  


What songs did she know? Did he have a preference? Did it even matter? Now wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. Her life was on the line here, so she picked one she knew decently well and cleared her throat. It came out horrible, off-key, and broken, but it was a song.

_Somewhere between happy, and total fucking wreck._  
_Feet sometimes on solid ground, sometimes at the edge._  
_To spend your waking moments, simply killing time,_  
_Is to give up on your hopes and dreams, to give up on your. . . ._

_Life for you has been less than kind,_  
_So take a number, stand in line._  
_We’ve all been sorry, we’ve all been hurt,_  
_But how we survive, is what makes us who we are._

Her voice was crackly and harsh at best and she couldn’t keep the tune properly, but it didn’t seem to make a difference to the hunter. He turned away as she began and returned to the center of the camp, and there he began hacking away at a dog-sized corpse not far away. She couldn’t watch him do it, desperately trying not to notice the way his blade-work matched the rhythm of her voice.  


She looked at the feet of the other hunter, tied awkwardly several feet off the ground. She dared not to distract herself from what she was doing, lest her captor lose his patience and she her head.

_An obvious disinterest, a barely managed smile._  
_A deep nod in agreement, a status quo exile._  
_I shirk my obligations, I miss all your deadlines._  
_I excel at quitting early, and fucking up my life._

_Life for you has been less than kind,_  
_So take a number, stand in line._  
_We’ve all been sorry, we’ve all been hurt,_  
_But how we survive, is what makes us who we are._

Solita couldn’t believe this was happening. This was just a crazy dream. A shitty fucking nightmare she’d wake up from back at her father’s ranch with a bottle of booze on the bed table where she left it. She’d call her mother in up in Maine and tell her all about it, and she’d get curious and want to know in more detail.  


Had it not been for the pain in her body and the sick, writhing madness in her gut, Solita would have sworn she was tripped on some sort of hallucinogen. She didn’t want to think of this as real. It couldn’t be. There was just no way.  


But as she started to realize that it was, a frightful tear ran down her cheek.

_All smiles and sunshine, a perfect world on a perfect day._  
_Everything always works out, I have never felt so fucking great._  
_All smiles and sunshine, a perfect world on a perfect day._  
_Everything always works out, I have never felt so great._

_Life isn’t like this._  
_Life isn’t like this._  
_Life isn’t like this. . . ._  
_Are we verging on an answer,_  
_Or fucking up our. . . ._

_Life for you has been less than kind,_  
_So take a number, stand in line._  
_We’ve all been sorry, we've all been hurt,_  
_But how we survive, is what makes us who we are._

Her song faded into nothingness in her throat, and she managed to wipe the tear off onto her shoulders, smudging the dirt on her raw cheeks and imbedding some grains in her pupil. They stung with a mix of sweat and tears and painful debris, and she wished she could rub them to make it go away, but she had no such luxury here. Discretely, she managed to sniff back the moisture in her nose and accidently took a peek at the other hunter.  


She stiffened as a reaction, but then remembered that this one couldn’t hurt her. It didn’t ease her mind, though. Because he was staring straight at her.  


How long had he been watching? Or even awake for that matter? Had he been listening the whole time?  


For a reason she could neither fathom nor explain, she felt her face growing warm.  


This one did not look expectant or impatient like the other. Rather, he seemed intrigued, curious even—maybe it was just due to their similar situations. His head was cocked at an angle that made the tendrils of his hair fall over one shoulder, mandibles splayed in an inquisitive manner. Even though there was a good thirty feet of distance between them, she could hear how they clacked together. She watched when they opened again and he blinked, tilting his head the other way, and his hair fell over the other shoulder. She noticed his neck—bound in a decorative coil—had to crane at an uncomfortable angle to see her. He was really putting in a lot of effort just to look at a measly little human.  


She started to feel sorry for the hunter. He would most likely end up with a fate far worse than hers. As soon as their captor was done with his dinner over there (It was painful for her to even think about that thing eating something.), she imagined he would start thinking of all the terrible ways to butcher his best catch alive—one slice at a time.  


It felt so odd to think that way, though. Since when did a monstrosity of such magnitude need or even have a desire for her pity? A _human’s_ pity?  


Before Solita could dwell on the matter any further, a deafening roar burst from the center of the camp, shaking her brain at its core.  


It could have been that the captive hunter had made too loud of a noise, or simply that the other finally noticed what was going on, but their captor came tearing through and let loose a beating on his prisoner.  


_“NO!”_ was all Solita had time to shout before the sound was drowned out by their roaring.  


The camp was in an uproar of two sets of furious roars and vicious growls. The hunter had axe in his hand, metallic and fierce and the equivalent of some otherworldly tomahawk. Swinging with practiced brutality, he dealt his blows mercilessly onto the body of the other. All his victim could do was thrash and roar as loud as he possibly could, jerking and pulling his chains, attempting to avoid and fend off the attack, trying to bash his skull into his assailant.  


Solita continued to shout and curse and pull against her bonds, cutting painfully into the raw flesh. Determined to do something about the injustice her eyes were beholding, “Stop it! Leave him alone, you fucking bastard!”  


She pulled and twisted her hands, feet kicking in a fruitless attempt at escape, to stop him. All she succeeded in was to dig those thin wires in deeper, daring to cut the flesh.  


Outraged at her own helplessness and bent on doing something about it, she did the very next thing that came to mind, and that was to scream at the very top of her lungs, _“Ell-osde’ pauk!”_  


For better or for worse, at least it got their attention.  


Both hunters stilled, attacker still with his weapon mid-swing, and all eyes set back on the human when her jaw clamped instantly shut.  


The second she realized what she had done, Solita’s expression melted into one of sheer horror.  


_Oh, fuck me,_ she thought, and watched in terror as the aggressor tossed his axe down and stalked right up to her. She dug her heels in the dirt and kicked sand at him frantically, as if by some ungodly miracle it would hold the leviathan at bay.  


The very next thing she knew, his talons had a death grip on all the hair on top of her head, and wrenched it forward with enough force to rip more than a few strands right from the root. She cried out in pain and heard the sound of his wrist blade leaving its compartment. Enraged snaps and snarls stormed overhead, having a grand time tugging her head this way and that like a marionette. The prick of cold metal zapped against her throat at one point and for a second she knew this was to be her end, but then it _shinked_ back into hiding. He growled furiously enough to rattle her brain all over again.  


The fire on her scalp released and Solita hit her head back against the totem, heart pounding with a hard, ragged breath of relief. Until she was greeted with the sight of his clawed foot flying at her from the side.  


It connected square in the lower left of her ribcage. Breath shot out like a cannon blast. Red-white light burst from every angle, fading in a second from gray and then to black. Inside, she felt something give, and a sickening _crack_ split the ringing silence in her ears.  


Solita fell face-first into the dirt, scarcely registering the sharp sting of wires slicing into her wrists.  


She never heard the roar of the other hunter. Not when all the lights went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ell-osde’ pauk!_ – “Fuck you!”  
>  Song used: “Survive” by Rise Against


	2. Plotting

It was a night filled with nightmares and dreamscapes. Horrid fantasies of monstrous creatures born of bloodlust and the enticements of the wild.

Her head was spinning. Everything hurt. Solita inhaled dirt and sand with every breath. She coughed and shifted her shoulders, trying to remember where she was. Then a knife stuck itself into her ribcage and she dug her face into the dirt just to muffle the mighty shriek that followed. She didn’t know how well it worked—probably not at all.

 _Fuck!_ She hadn’t been in this much pain since taking a bullet for a friend in the war!

When the hell had she cracked a rib? Or, for that matter, how?

Then she cracked one eye open and remembered everything.

 _Fuck me sideways,_ she thought and forced herself to sit up with as little rib gyration as possible.

She was still in the hunter’s camp, tragically alive. At least Black Jaw—as she was coming to know her captor by, courtesy of his coloration and that wicked jawbone adorning his mask—was nowhere to be seen. Solita wondered how long she’d been unconscious, guessing vaguely that it couldn’t have been very long because the sky was still decently dark.

Looking around, she saw the other hunter, but to say he looked worse for wear would be putting it mildly. He looked like Hell. Black Jaw must have gone all out on him after knocking her out. He was spattered in marks of florescent green—a color her mother described as the color of their blood. His head was slouched and he wasn’t moving. For a moment, Solita feared he was dead, but then she figured he wouldn’t still be tied up if that were the case.

Fending off the stabbing pain in her side, she looked around for Black Jaw but he was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably gone back to the jungle to continue hunting. Thank God.

She tried calling to the beaten hunter. “Hey.” No response. She tried again, a little louder, “Yautja!”

He stirred but made no further signs of life.

She sighed, defeated and weak, and leaned back against her totem, deciding not to force him awake if he was trying to rest. Lord knew he looked like he needed it.  


She allowed her thoughts to wander as she looked around, wondering if any of the others were still alive. If they were, she doubted they’d be anywhere nearby. If they were smart, they’d get as far away from this place as geographically possible, but then she started to remember something Noland had said. Something about the hunters’ ship and how it was close to their campsite.

_The ship!_

Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

A jar from the ribcage reminded her that she was still a prisoner. She would have to figure out how to free herself before planning any kind of escape. (Priorities first.) Then, there was the matter of just flying the damn thing. She’d tried her hand at helicopter piloting back in the army but couldn’t make the cut. Solita was no pilot, but looking back at the hunter across from her, she started to make a plan.

Not long after, she was humming a little tune as she fingered at her bonds with her one good hand. They were thin and tough like steel cables shrunken down and made into fibers. There had to be something nearby she could use to work at them, maybe prick at the knot or saw through it outright. She looked around. There were rocks and pebbles, pieces of wood, and bone fragments scattered about all around. The femur of what looked to be a man-sized animal sat just out of arm’s reach, and her military training suddenly kicked in with some gusto.

Solita shifted herself around, careful not to stop humming, and stretched her leg out as far as she could get it. Her ribcage screamed and she could feel the wires cutting into her skin from the pull, but she kept it up until she snagged the corner with her boot heel.

Grinning, luck was finally on her side. Dragging it over, Solita angled it so one end was propped up on a small rock. She worked quickly, fearing Black Jaw would return at any moment, and slammed her heel down on the center of the bone.

_Snap!_

It splintered right on impact, leaving behind two sharp, jagged-edged fragments. Solita thanked whatever god or deity was watching and quickly began slipping out of her boots, but a long flurry of clicks snapped her head up and she immediately dropped her legs over her handiwork.

It was the other hunter, and he was watching her with his head angled to one side.

All she could bring herself to do was smile at the sight of him, though, glad to know he was at least well enough to pay attention to the things around him, that her “prison-mate” still had some fight left in him. For some reason, the fear of him getting her cover blown scarcely even crossed her mind.

Solita didn’t know how to ask it in his language, so she said it in English: “You can keep a secret, right big guy?”

He angled his head the other way and clacked his tusks together, and when his clicking turned into a low base of trilling, curious purrs, she felt like she knew everything was going to work out just fine.

Solita slipped out of her socks, but it took a few tries before she finally managed to wrestle one of the bone fragments between her toes.

The whole while, her ribs screamed in agonized protest. The wires strained as they dug mercilessly into her raw wrists; she could feel the broken something in her hand start to burn. A bead of sweat trailed from her brow down her cheek and off her chin, and she bent forward and shut her eyes tight, chomping down on the dirty, sand-covered bone to make sure she didn’t drop it and worked quickly to shrug it over one shoulder. It went down slow and she caught it on her fingertips and did the same with the next piece, hiding it underneath her shirt as best she could manage.

The hunter was watching her in what she believed to be amazement. He must’ve known that humans were resourceful, but not quite to that degree.

Solita paused for a breather and regained herself, waiting for the fire of her injuries to die down before continuing. Calmly, she tested for the roughest side of the one bone and then felt around for the top wire between her wrists. She got to work immediately, sawing at the wires slowly but surely, realigning her position back to how she’d been sitting before.

Multitasking was going to be the one thing that got her out of this predicament, she knew, so she ditched her socks by tossing them both towards one of the snapping, crackling fires. (There was no hope of getting them back on, anyway.) One landed square in the middle of the flames, but the other landed a bit off to the side much to her immediate horror. Fortunately, a stray ember caught a breeze and the sock was a smoldering pile of ash a few moments later. She was only going to get one shot at this opportunity, and she couldn’t risk messing it up by leaving evidence for Black Jaw to pick up on should he return before she was ready.

She slipped her boots back on, hating the dirt that was now grinding away inside them, and went back to humming her little tune and sawing away at the bonds keeping her from her one shot at freedom.

\---------

A few hours after sunrise, Black Jaw returned dragging a couple animal corpses behind him. Seeing it made her think the other humans were still alive out there somewhere—shit-lucky and still breathing. He sure as hell wasn’t happy about something, and one roar in her direction had her singing again to pacify and put him back in that “maybe-I’ll-kill-you- _later_ ” mood.

 _Dancing bears,_  
_Painted wings,_  
_Things I almost remember,_  
_And a song, someone sings,_  
_Once upon a December._

 _Someone holds me safe and warm._  
_Horses prance through a silver storm._  
_Figures dancing gracefully across my memory._

 _Far away, long ago,_  
_Glowing dim as an ember._  
_Things my heart used to know,_  
_Once upon a December._

Black Jaw didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the other hunter as he went about skinning his kills and collecting his trophies from them. In fact, he looked to be going out of his way to avoid so much as acknowledging his beaten foe. Perhaps he’d had his fill of pummeling the living hell out of him while she’d been unconscious. At least it gave the poor hunter a bit of a reprieve, maybe enough time to let his wounds heal a bit and recover. Maybe.

 _Someone holds me safe and warm._  
_Horses prance through a silver storm._  
_Figures dancing gracefully across my memory._

 _Far away, long ago,_  
_Glowing dim as an ember._  
_Things my heart used to know,_  
_Things it yearns to remember._

 _And a song, someone sings,_  
_Once upon a December_

Black Jaw left again when the sun was high and Solita went right back to working on sawing out of her bonds. Unfortunately, the wires were proving tougher than expected. Already, she’d had to flip the bone around to the opposite side because the other was rapidly losing its edge.

Her hands grew rawer by the minute while she worked, tugging and straining and rubbing against the wires. She could feel it. Her arms were aching horribly.

The events of the past thirty-six hours had taken their toll on her mind and body. She was beaten and exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. The last real sleep she’d ever gotten was in the time-lapse between when she was on her father’s ranch to when she awoke in freefall. Her brief rest in Noland’s hideout hadn’t done much for help, and getting knocked out twice by Black Jaw didn’t count for shit.

As she worked on those godforsaken wires, the movement of her hands became mechanical and repetitive, and she had to force herself to stay awake despite the raw burning of every little twist and rub.

It was hard. It hurt. She was just so tired.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Solita started to babble after a while, not really paying attention as to whether or not the other hunter could even hear her—or for that matter understand a word she was saying. She just wanted to retain consciousness for now, and talking might actually help. “You know where the ship is, right? You know how to fly it?”

She looked up in his direction. Her vision was a little fuzzy and there was a glare from the hot sun in her eyes, but she could see that he was regarding her, tusks splayed and head cocked. He huffed out a snort and made a low growling noise, angling his head in a way that looked something like a nod.

He could understand. _Good._

Solita managed a weary grin and leaned her head back, trying her best to keep the weight off her abdomen. “Good. ‘Cause when I get us out of this mess that’s gonna’ be our ticket off this rock.”

His expression changed, and his tusks clacked together and his brow rose.

Whether she needed his help or not, Solita had no intention of leaving this hunter behind. No one deserved to be killed by a brute like Black Jaw, not even another hunter. She was going to get them both out of here if it was the last thing she did.

She just hoped that it _wouldn’t_ be the last thing she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yautja_ – name of the Predator race  
>  Song used: “Once Upon a December” from the Anastasia Soundtrack


	3. Taste of Freedom

Hours longer into the effort, her head was spinning, ready to pass out. She was exhausted—sweaty, sore, filthy, wounded, and a whole mess of other things she never dreamed she’d have to deal with outside the war.

Did she really deserve all this? Had she really committed such a grave atrocity in her lifetime that she was worthy of a Hell as horrible as this one? For God’s sake, she just wanted to wake up from this fucking nightmare!

Her pace had grown sluggish as she continued to saw at the wires, still trying futilely to break free of those goddamned ties.

Night was in the making, now, and her head was lolling off to one side. Black Jaw had yet to return— _thank thee, Almighty_ —but she hadn’t made much progress on the wires, either. Solita recalled them feeling a little frayed at one point, but lord only knew how many hours ago that had been.

It seemed like even her would-be comrade had given up on her. His head bowed limply forward, either asleep or in the process of it. It had been a great comfort for her to have someone to speak to, even if that someone didn’t speak back. She was just like that. She could carry on a one-way conversation so long as it satisfied her, ranting about things just to retain her own withering, distorted sense of sanity.

But with no one and nothing to talk to right now, her mind began to slip into the deepest, darkest recesses of despair.

The bonds were getting her nowhere fast. In fact, she was pretty sure it was one step forward and three steps back with how much she was hurting herself with those makeshift knives. More than a couple times, she’d accidentally stabbed herself with it, cramped every hand, finger, and arm muscle from the terribly awkward angle, and cut up her fingers into a spider web of nasty little gashes. She cursed up a tempest to put a sailor to shame every time. Even the hunter had given her an odd look at the profanities streaming from her weary, half-gnawed lips at one point.

Movements dragging, Solita muttered incoherent things under her breath as her fingers refused to quit working, craving escape even as her mind could no longer fathom the concept of freedom.

She felt a harsh snap slash suddenly across her wrist, and the jagged bone dagger cut into her forearm with a surprising amount of force, snapping her out of her daze with a long stream of blasphemes cursing whatever deity had seen fit to abandon her to a hellhole such as this one. So angry and hopeless was she that she took her knife and stabbed it into the dirt with all the force she could muster, hiding her face with a choking sob of anguish and utter dismay.

“I’m never going to get out of here,” she choked solemnly, blubbering stupidly—still in a partial daze.

She didn’t even notice that she had woken up the hunter with all her accursed crying, and he shook the sleep from his mind to see what had gotten the human so worked up.

What he saw threw him for a loop, and he started a chorus of clicks, purrs, and growls all in an effort to get her attention.

It worked.

She wiped her eyes clean to look at him, but then stopped the instant she realized what she had done. She stared at her palms for moment of stunned silence, taking them in like precious jewels in the hands of a poor man—gleaming and glorious and life-altering.

Her face broke into a huge, ear-to-ear grin, and she scrambled to her feet as quickly as her numb legs would allow, immediately regretting the movement as her ribcage caught fire. Having to take a moment to steady herself on the totem, holding her side, she caught her breath again and looked at the hunter who was watching her with wide yellow eyes.

Solita retrieved the instruments of her freedom from the dirt and gave them proper places in her belt loops, lumbering over to the hunter, holding a formidable mass of bruising on her side and her legs half-asleep. She went for the side of his totem right away.

“I told you I’d get us out of here,” she said, fumbling over the chains that imprisoned him.

He growled, but not in anger or contempt or anything of the like. Rather, they were something that sounded almost grateful and yet urgent at the same time. He knew as well as she did that she needed to hurry.

Her hands dumb and motionless around the chains, she growled her frustration at the links with a tone that could rival a hunter’s. She hadn’t counted on this.

_Dammit!_

All that time figuring out their escape and she never once took into account that his restraints would have to be stronger than hers. Shit. Where was her luck when she needed it?

But Solita wasn’t one to give up so easily.

She took back one of her daggers and tried chiseling at the links beside his talons—monstrous black things that she would give her the chills were they not bound as they were. She heard his growling pick up a notch over her shoulder, but she wasn’t paying any mind to it.

“Shut it. I’m getting you out of here if it’s the last thing I—”

But she was eating her words before she knew what hit her.

The hunter erupted in a startled roar the instant she caught sight of the three glowing red targeting points set on the stone totem less than six inches from her head. Eyes shot wide, heart jumped, and she had only enough time to throw herself to the ground before a volley of plasma shards erupted from the shot connecting with the stone inches from the hunter’s arm.

She rolled onto her back and gasped, pain the very last thing on her mind.

Black Jaw stood before her. Mask on, plasmacaster smoldering, struck in a wide stance that read of rage and animal fury. His dark hide glistened more lethally than an obsidian dagger in the firelight, wet with the sweat of a fruitless hunt, and she watched it ripple with the force of a harrowing snarl that ripped right through his mask and put a sickening sputter into her heartbeat.

The jawbone on his helmet had never looked more terrifying.

Solita backpedaled, shambling clumsily across the ground as rapidly as she could, but not finding the ability to stand would be the hindrance that cost her her life.

Someone was watching over her, though.

The instant she was sure she was going to meet her fate at Black Jaw’s blade, her hunter turned his head and roared louder than she ever thought possible—right into his ear.

It startled the attacker just enough to turn his head around, the red-black tendrils of his hair fanning out, and he roared immediately back.

Solita took her chance.

She ran. Ran as fast her feet would carry her, pain a thing of the past.

Disappearing into the darkness of the jungle, barreling headlong into vines, shrubs, and small branches, she dared not to look back. All she could think about was getting away. Run now. Fight later. There would be no fight if she didn’t survive. There would be no escape from this hellhole—not for her, not for the hunter she had vowed to free. Not if she did not survive.

It was up to her to stay alive.

If only it were so easy.

She heard the roars fading behind her, but when one suddenly stopped, she knew she was going to need a miracle to make it out of this mess alive.

She’d never make it away from Black Jaw on foot. He was a far better tracker than she could possibly imagine. To top it off, she needed light to see where she was going. He did not.

But before she knew what was happening, seeing where she was going was no longer an issue.

“Holy sh—” she started to say, but lost her words and her breath when she was overcome by the abrupt, nauseating sensation of descent.

And she fell headlong off the edge of an embankment less than fifty yards from the hunter’s camp. Tumbling end over end down the slope at a bone crushing pace, igniting a fire in her damaged ribcage with pain shooting her arms and every part of her body, she plowed through plants and small bushes and narrowly avoided being broken in half on a few trees, missing the chance at splintering both knees on a boulder by inches.

Ground, sky, trees. Ground, sky, trees. Ground, sky, trees. Ground, sky—

And then a whole new, far more terrifying descent grabbed hold all over again.

Leveling out, she had just enough time to see the dark water ready to swallow her alive. Solita straightened her legs, sucked in enough air to pop a balloon, and clasped both hands over her mouth and nose.

Hitting the water at that height and speed was like being shot out of a cannon feet first through a concrete wall. By no means was it a pleasant experience. With punishing force, she pencil-dived a good twenty feet down and hit the bottom. All the dirt, sweat, and grime was torn free from the sheer force of impact, but she was fortunate enough to get a foothold on something and shoved back towards the surface.

She was coughing and panting with pain and desperation when she surfaced, savoring this sweet taste of life and freedom. She looked up at where she’d fallen from and saw a height that would have given professional cliff divers second thoughts. Had she been unfortunate enough to land wrong, she could have easily been killed. _My lucky day,_ she thought and coughed again. _Or maybe not._

The dagger that had still been in her hand was floating beside her now, so she grabbed it up and swam for the embankment as quickly as she could.

Hauling herself up onto the rise, she grabbed as many roots as possible to keep from sliding back in and dragged herself through mud and muck and grime until her knees planted in deep, and she straightened her back to try to catch her breath. Solita panted short and ragged and let out a low, shoddy shriek of bloody fucking agony.

She could feel the cracked rib now broken beneath the skin, bent in a way ribs should never be bent. The entirety of her left side was black and blue and a sickening purple, and a whole mess of other colors that skin should not look like. At this rate, she’d end up with blood poisoning from marrow in the bloodstream, or worse: a punctured lung or ruptured internal organ. All were horrible means of death, but not nearly as frightening as the thought of the hunter now after her.

Solita crawled into a jumbled maze of tree roots and managed to right herself there, trying to wipe off the mud for fear of future infection. All she succeeded in doing was to smear the thick muck, though, and further caked it into the skin. Then, a memory struck her hard like a ton of bricks.

“Dutch. . . .”

She dredged that name up from the deepest corners of her memory. Something her mother had told her in her stories. How Dutch had survived: he’d covered himself with mud to block his heat signature, concealing himself from his hunter.

Solita immediately began scooping handfuls of mud and slathered herself in it. It was cold, rough, gritty, and disgusting, filled with small rocks, twigs, and leaves that scratched her raw skin. It stung against her cuts and it reeked worse than low tide, but she spread it over herself as an artist’s paint on canvas. She covered her face and lathered it into her hair like an exotic shampoo, going so far as to roll around like a dog, making sure to get it inside her shirt, lifting her necklace to get underneath it, too. Soon, not a molecule of flesh was left uncovered.

And just in the nick of time. As she splattered one last handful on the back of her neck, there was a loud splash in the water behind her. She clambered forward frightfully and entangled herself in a thick mass of roots for shelter, feeling her side scream its protest, and she turned just in time to see the water a few yards from the bank part to make way for a massive figure rising through.

She saw nothing at first. Only a cylindrical distortion of cresting light, and then it began to ripple and spark and Black Jaw’s camouflage system inverted on itself. He was up to his waist when he stopped to push buttons and flip dials on his wrist console, and it beeped at him loudly and continued to flash and surge in the strangest ways.

_Your equipment doesn’t like water, does it, you sadistic bastard?_ Solita thought as she watched his every movement, keeping her eyes half hidden behind the cover of one of the thicker roots.

Black Jaw let out a series of angry clicks and scanned the embankment with his sensors. Now was the turning point. To see if what her mother had told her was true. Praying that it was and that she hadn’t just come up with some elaborate means of glorifying a good mud bath.

Solita clamped her eyes shut and listened, slowing her breathing and her heartbeat to a crawl—a trick she’d learned among the army snipers back home. She heard the soft splashes and squash of mud as Black Jaw waded up the bank. The low hum of his visor reached her ears as it scanned the root system for heat signatures, flashing and droning. Then he did something she didn’t expect.

He started sniffing.

Dear God! She didn’t even know yautjas had a sense of smell! _Mother, you didn’t say anything about this!_ she thought, feeling the blood rush out of her face. _That’s it. It’s the end of me. Forgive me, hunter, but it looks like I won’t be able to keep my promise to you._

Solita let her arms relax and waited for death by Black Jaw’s blade, so certain was she that she would be found.

He came in closely, now. No more than two feet from her, sniffing the air and making that bizarre clicking noise only the hunters could make. Listening to how his clawed hands and feet compressed the muddy ground and sunk in slightly, making only the slightest of sounds as he stuck his head into the undergrowth that she had made into her sanctuary.

She dared not open her eyes and meet the gaze of her demon, resigned only to the coming of death.

She could reach out and touch him if she so desired, but the snap of a nearby twig alerted him elsewhere. With a silent roar, he was gone from her haven, and she slid out of it without even realizing what had happened. She stared up at the roots in disbelief and would have started to cry were it not that she was unwilling to wash away even the tiniest portion of the wonderful, lifeguarding filth that had shielded her.

Solita took a moment and made sure Black Jaw really was gone before daring to crawl the rest of the way off the embankment and back into the jungle.

She could still smell the smoke from the bonfires from where she was. She hadn’t gotten far from the camp. Perhaps that was a good sign. She knew how to get back from here, and now would be the ideal time—while Black Jaw was busy chasing whatever it was he’d mistaken for her—to free the other hunter and get the hell off this goddamned planet.

But before she did, she needed to be ready for anything. Her military training had taught her the hard way that a problem unplanned for was a problem waiting to happen. So, she would plan for Black Jaw showing up uninvited—God willing, he didn’t. Having to face him, even with backup, was something she wanted to avoid if at all possible.

She searched around and found a sharp-edged stone, and she used it to sharpen the two bone knives she was quickly growing fond of. The two pieces of what once was an animal’s femur were quickly transformed into an intimidating pair of daggers as long as her forearm each. She even tested her handiwork and was satisfied to see them able to carve a formidable gash into the bark of one rather solid looking tree. As a final touch, she bound each handle in large, green leaves for an easier grip, tying it off with small vines.

Each tiny sound had her snapping her head around in every possible direction. With Black Jaw most likely still nearby, her senses were on overdrive. But this time, if it really did come down to a fight for freedom, she would no longer be the one cowering in fear for her life.

No. _She_ was at the advantage, now.

The hunters relied too heavily on their sense of sight, but now it was useless to him. And to top it off, his camouflage was on the fritz just when he needed it most.

Now, she could see him, but he couldn’t see her.

For the briefest of instants, Solita knew what it felt like to be the hunter. To be at the advantage in this kill-or-be-killed struggle for survival. She relished in the sensation. The sheer bliss, the raw ecstasy of power over the prey. Never in her life had she known anything sweeter.

Now, she understood why the hunters hunted so.

The thrill of the chase. The joy of the hunt. The fruits of the kill.

They were a release from the complex rule of society. One that, while it pit them tooth and nail against unimaginable forces, it gave them a glimpse into a beautiful, simple, savage world where the strongest made it to sunrise and the rest were picked from the teeth of those worthy enough to retain their role it.

The mere thought of it was breathtaking, intoxicating.

Mud-covered, bruised, battered, and in nowhere near the ideal condition for battle, Solita took up her blades and began to make her way slowly back to camp. She kept her legs bent with every step, ready to spring at the slightest inkling of danger, whisking her head around to scrutinize every little sound. At every turn, her guard was up, hopping nimbly around every tree to attack anything that might be waiting on the other side, and eyeing the treetops and higher branches for the monster that could be lurking there.

Soon, she made it back to the edge of the campsite and hid behind a low row of bushes, unwilling to give away her position just yet. She knew Black Jaw had left too quickly to set up any traps should she return, but she couldn’t assume that he’d gone away leaving the other hunter alive and well. And by the look of him, she feared that her hopes of escape would be crushed into a million pieces.

Thorn was what she decided to nickname him, for, upon an up-close view of the hunter, she was surprised to see small dermal extrusions of what looked to be clusters of spikes—made of the same dense material as his hair—strewn along his brow, shoulders, and in a line down his chest and abdomen.

He was motionless on his totem, head bowed and mandibles slack. He didn’t even appear to be breathing, that was just how lifeless he appeared.

_God, please, let him be alive,_ Solita thought in a pleading way.

She searched the ground and picked up a small stone from the edge of the tall grass and weighed it for a second, judging the distance between herself and where Thorn was tied. Then, she curled her arm back, aimed, and let it fly. It struck Thorn square on his left shoulder and he reared his head up and snarled viciously, jarring against the chains, and swung his head around to see what had struck him. Solita smiled; he was fine. Black Jaw hadn’t touched him.

Silently, Solita stalked into the campsite, ducking behind mounds of dirt or bones and small structures, keeping one eye out for Black Jaw and the other trained on Thorn. When she was at his side, she picked up the very same axe that Black Jaw had used to beat Thorn senseless once before, surprised for a moment at how light it was for its size and how good it gripped within her hold.

She covered back against Thorn’s totem inches from his flexing talons, and she eyed her surroundings cautiously. His growling had stopped but he was still looking around, unable to see anything but still sensing something amiss.

“I need you to keep quiet for me, big guy,” she whispered low under her breath, holding the axe tight across her chest.

Thorn whisked his head around abruptly for the source of the voice, hair fanning out with his eyes wide and mandibles splayed. He let out a long drone of clicking as his yellow-gold eyes flared with surprise at the dark, muddy creature partially hidden by the dim hues of twilight.

His clicking turned into a growl.

“What did I just tell you?” Solita hissed, looking around quickly. “Do you want Tall-Dark-And-Ugly to know what’s going on?”

That shut him up, but he never turned his head away.

She faced the totem and raised the axe, locking onto the chain.

“Brace yourself.”

Whether or not he had the chance to actually do so Solita didn’t have time to tell, because right when her words were done she swung the axe down as hard and as fast as she could and split the links like a hot knife through butter. With nothing else to hold him up, Thorn plummeted face first with an ungracious thud into the hard ground below.

Solita lowered the axe and scanned the area again for any disturbances, and then she looked back at him. Thorn pushed himself up and shook his head out, not used to the sudden mobility and having to readjust his limbs. He’d probably been strung up there for quite a while, Solita thought, maybe even days, because when he ripped away the bonds still attached to his wrists she saw a dark green discoloration that she figured was probably some really bad bruising.

She kept looking around and checking over her shoulders. Even when Solita wasn’t neck deep in the shark tank like she was right now, she had never been very fond of being out in the open—the army had taught her that much. Even though she was the invisible one now, she still felt like a sitting duck.

“Get your things and let’s go,” she started to say, turning her head at Thorn without taking her eyes off the tree line. The glare of the fires wasn’t making it any easier for her to see into the shadows of the jungle. Not when it was so dark out. “I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have—”

Suddenly, her feet were off the ground. Three feet off the ground. There was a vice grip latched around her throat, cutting off her airway and lifting her like nothing more than a petty little paperweight. All to put her at eyelevel with the hunter before her.

_“Gh!”_ she choked.

She would have gasped if it was possible, but breathing was easier said than done at that point.

The axe fell with a _fump_ to the ground, and Solita grappled for his wrist with both hands, the meager bleated sound of a gag leaving her. She held onto his arm for dear life, feet kicking flimsily, either trying to free herself or get the weight off so she could breathe—whichever seemed more possible in that moment.

Thorn had a fire in his eyes as he scrutinized her, power mandibles spread and brow tightened in clear aggression. A low, harsh growl rippled through the soft palate behind his razor-sharp teeth, looking ready to take a chunk clean out of her. The small spines that protruded from his brow looked extra sharp against the surface of his hide and the wavering shadows cast by firelight. His eyes were set deep into his skull—glaring and vibrant with rage—and the area around them was black, giving it a greater sense of depth and a more ominous core of ferocity.

Solita knew she should probably be scared out of her mind right about now. But she wasn’t. She did, however, feel like a complete and total idiot.

She’d just automatically assumed that Thorn would be willing to help her. She’d never made a deal with him. There was never any if-I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine kind of bargaining. The thought had never crossed her mind.

She hadn’t taken his honor into account. Not once. Nothing in her had even thought to consider whether or not he even had any. Whether or not he was an Honorable Warrior or a Bad Blood, like in the stories her mother had uncovered.

Sure, Solita felt like the biggest moron alive right now, but the look on her face was not one of fear.

No, she was not afraid of Thorn. _He_ wasn’t the one who held the monopoly on that emotion right now. Solita wasn’t afraid of being killed by him. If it came down to it, death by his hands would be quicker and cleaner than one by Black Jaw’s. Of that she was certain.

In fact, Solita wasn’t even sure what she was feeling in that moment. Apprehension, yes, because of how sharp his talons were against the sensitive skin of her neck. Uneasy from being suspended so high off the ground. Pain at her ribcage being stretched. But when she met his eyes—her expression twisted with strain from agony and a lack of oxygen—she watched as the fire in them gradually died down into something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and it puzzled her in a way she couldn’t explain.

As much as she admired the sheer knowing and intelligence in his great and powerful, golden-yellow eyes, his grip wasn’t loosening, and she was pulling and adjusting against it in an effort to reduce the strain on her windpipe.

She tried to explain.

“Look . . . I understand if you’re p-pissed . . . _ugh!_ . . . about me running off . . . like that. But didn’t I t-t-ell you . . . ?” _For the love of God,_ she thought in winded frustration, _can his grip get any tighter?_ “I’m getting us ou-out of here if it’s . . . the last thing I . . . I do! Guh!”

Thorn cocked his head at the angle that made his hair shift to one side, flexing his tusks ponderously. She could see it in his eyes. He was thinking, debating.  


_Oh, fuck me with a broom,_ she growled. Her lips were pulling back over her still-white teeth and her feet were starting to kick more vigorously, growing evermore desperate for escape. _Give the honor thing a shot, you stupid bitch!_

“For whatever it’s worth . . . to you— _guh_. . . . I kept . . . I kept my word.” She huffed slightly, straining to pull herself up and get the pressure off her throat. “I came back. I got you . . . got you out. I kept . . . my word of honor.”

At the word, something momentarily forgotten came to surface in Thorn’s eyes. His growling transformed into a long volley of those bizarre clicks, and his grip instantly loosened.

Solita sucked in a deep breath and coughed once, cringing at her broken rib; although, he still didn’t let her down, yet, and it was starting to wear against her self-control not to kick him square in the gut and hope he dropped her. She re-mastered her composure to meet Thorn’s gaze again, her eyes smoldering with a flame of determination that caught even the hunter by surprise.

“I said I could get us free, and I did. Now . . . I need your help to get us out of here. Together. . . .” She managed to swallow through the strain, working it down past the firm grip of his muscular hand. His fingers flexed as a reaction to the movement, talons grazing the nape of her neck, but otherwise kept still. “Can I count on that? Can I trust in your honor?”

His mandibles twitched and his brow rose, cocking his head the other way this time. Then, his tusks clacked together and he set her down, eyeing the strange human as she stumbled slightly and covered her mouth to stifle the sound of coughing. When Solita looked up, she saw him incline his head once, and she felt a ripple of elation churn through her belly.

Solita had to wait for him as he went about the campsite gathering all the equipment that he’d been stripped of after his capture. All the while, she took the liberty of acting as sentry and kept guard for any signs of Black Jaw, only taking the occasional glance at Thorn from the corner of her eye—drawn by his movements. Soon, he had recovered all his gear and she went and stood before him, watching as he donned the final piece: his mask. A surge of power went through the gear.

It floored Solita when she realized that his mask looked almost identical to the sketches her mother used to obsess over drawing when she was young—albeit more than a little damaged. She didn’t notice she was staring until he cocked his head at her.

He directed her attention at his wrist console, flipping it open and pushing a few buttons as the symbols of his written language illuminated bright red, and a hologram appeared above the device, displaying a diagram of a large planet with three moons—the game planet. Then it flashed quickly past another she didn’t recognize and immediately stopped on a layout that made her heartbeat flutter and soar. There was Earth and the moon rotating around each other in all their magnificence and glory, each beautiful orb glowing a vibrant blue with vivid details of the land masses and oceans. Never had a picture of the Earth looked so amazing. She wanted to cry from the sheer splendor of it.

“You can preset the coordinates?” Solita asked and looked up into the dark, black impressions that covered his eyes.

He inclined his head, clicking softly, and proceeded to press two more buttons and a roar sounded in the distance that jolted Solita in her skin. When her eyes followed the sound, shocked, she realized nothing living could possibly be able to make a sound like that, nor give off such a light or blow so strongly through the trees. She was soaring on ecstasy as she listened to the glorious howl of the ship just beyond the tree line.

And then a second roar sounded, and she felt her heart plummet back into the deepest, darkest trenches of dread and despair.

She didn’t want to see the demon that stood so near to them, now, but when Thorn turned so quickly she could not help but do the same.

Black Jaw was standing there, and if she thought he looked angry before she was sorely mistaken. Whatever small reserves of calm he may have had once upon a time had all evaporated at the sight of Thorn freed, lost in the torrential rampage of cyclonic fury, and all that remained was the true incarnation of rage, evil, and the overpowering desire to kill. She could feel the hatred searing through the dark, dismal layer of obsidian sensors that covered his eyes.

He stared at Thorn with a bloodlust that ran deeper than Solita could even comprehend. One that had smoldered like fire in his veins all his life and throughout the lives of his sires before him, and their sires, and their sires, and their sides, back to the beginning of whenever the blood feud between their two races had come about. Whatever Black Jaw’s original intentions had been for Thorn—capture rather than kill—they were forgotten. Now, he desired nothing more than the head of the hunter before him, and Thorn felt much the same.

Thorn stepped in front of Solita—back to her, eyes on Black Jaw—and he _growled_. Black Jaw didn’t even seem to acknowledge the human’s presence, a good indication that she was still invisible to him. Both their bodies trembled and vibrated with the sheer ferocity of their growls—hides rippling, limbs shaking, hair tendrils trembling. Their claws flexed and clenched, and Solita took a small step back.

This was a fight she could not get involved in. One she had no place interfering with. Despite her shared hatred of Black Jaw, she had no feud with either of them, not like this one. Besides, what help would she be to Thorn anyway? The big brute. She was half his size, ten times weaker, had no fancy armor, no form of projectile weaponry, and she had no idea what it would take to take down an enemy of Black Jaw’s stature. All she had on her side was a flimsy pair of daggers that would probably only maim Black Jaw, that was if she could get close enough and not lose her head trying.

She took another step back and turned her head.

She could hear the roar of the engines from here. The powerful gusts made by the thrusters blew so strongly they made the trees bow to their might. It was a mere breeze to her, though, one that whispered the sweet nothings of a lover in her ears, chilling the mud on her cheeks like a wonderful, refreshing balm.

It was calling to her. Beckoning with the promise of freedom and its sweet, sweet kiss. A freedom from this hell and all others like it.

At last.

With no second thoughts, Solita surrendered herself to the call and ran for the safety of the ship, leaving Thorn to fight his own battles.

And fight them he would.


	4. Hunter to Hunted

Thorn and Black Jaw stared each other down in the campsite. Almost the instant Solita had left—fleeing to the relative safety and freedom of the hunters’ ship—they charged. Ran at each other headlong, roaring with every ounce of force in their bodies. Two massive forms slammed together in a great show of force, and Thorn’s entire cloaking system—which had been damaged at one point prior to capture and was malfunctioning—erupted in a flurry of blue sparks that encased his entire form.

Black Jaw, the bigger and stronger of the two, was the first with the upper hand. So great was the force he hit Thorn with that it knocked him flat on his back, and Black Jaw went down with him hitting and slashing and trying to bash his head in. Blue sparks flashed with each strike, and Thorn grabbed Black Jaw by the throat and heaved him back.

Quick to his feet, Black Jaw leapt straight up, about to bring his foot down full force onto Thorn’s skull, but his prisoner was just as fast. He rolled out of the way in time for Black Jaw’s aim to land in a small pool of water and splash, and Thorn gave him a well-placed uppercut that put him on his back.

They were back to their feet quickly enough, and the two hunters began a circle around each other. A dance of animal rage and bloodlust and hate. Thorn’s camouflage system continued to spark and surge blue light, but something must have fixed itself because now he was flashing in and out of the visible spectrum, form flicking and blurring as they circled. Snarling and roaring, neither willing to give the other any kind of an advantage.

And then Black Jaw roared, garbled and ragged through his mask, and they charged each other again. Slamming together with all their might, Thorn was forced back on the defensive. Back-stepping as he blocked his attacker’s swings, cloaking system sparking on every impact. Black Jaw landed another good hit and pounced on Thorn, tearing through a strung-up pelt as they fell and knocking him to the ground with his back flat in a pool of fire. Thorn roared and heaved Black Jaw off, both rolling from the searing flames, a trail of embers skipping after Thorn.

They were back to their feet in an instant. Black Jaw’s targeting system lit up, and his plasmacaster began to whirl and glow, aiming down Thorn’s back as he sprinted like the Devil was at his heels.

Shots fired off quick and hot, erupting in showers of white sparks with each strike of the ground or one of the wooden structures built up around the camp. Thorn’s cloaking system flashed at each narrow miss, feeling the shock and bursts of heat from each plasma shard raining down his back.

Thrown off by one of the bolts as it struck just behind his feet, Thorn fell hard over the side of a long-fallen tree. His claws clenched into the dirt, breathing hard—image sparking and surging in and out of reality—with a pained look about him.

\------

Solita ran for the roar of the engines, the roar of her freedom.

When she came to the ship, it was the most magnificent thing she’d ever laid eyes on. The thrusters shown with a beautiful white light in the dark, propelling the large craft up off the ground and allowing it to hover gracefully just a few short feet over the jungle floor. The boarding dock was already down.

She could hear it calling, whispering her name with the luscious promise of release from this Hell. Beckoning sweet and saccharine.

She took a step towards it, but some unknown force compelled her to look back. The first thing she expected to see was Thorn standing there behind her, ready to fly this beautiful behemoth home as their promise had been. But there was no one there. Only empty space and a dark, ominous jungle, not the great big brute she’d somehow begun to grow fond of.

Only then did she remember Black Jaw and the fight that had ensued upon his arrival.

There was bad blood between the hunters’ two races, and it only made sense that they would carry on that feud inside themselves. It was a fight she had no right to involve with, and yet, without Thorn beside her, Solita could not will herself one-hundred-percent to step onboard that craft. It just didn’t feel right.

Why was she wasting time when time was so crucial right now?

It infuriated her, and she could not make her legs work. Suddenly angry at herself and her uncooperative body, she lashed out against the limbs that were refusing to do as their master told. She only ended up flinching when the movement jarred her ribcage, though, but something else caught her attention. Something she felt in her pocket. She rummaged through all the many pouches in her cargo jeans and then stopped when she felt something solid on her fingertips. She gaped in total shock at what she found.

A small cluster of C4, the detonator still intact. She took it while in Noland’s hideout and only to completely forgot about it until now.

An idea struck her mind with startling force. She looked back.

She could do something, now. Who cared about blood feuds and whether or not it was her place to interfere. With an explosive charge of that caliber, there was no telling to all the ways she could turn the tables on that battle back at the campsite. She could turn the tide on Black Jaw. She could help Thorn. Maybe even win the fight all in one shot.

But in her mind, she could feel something pulling, holding her back.

Solita looked at the bomb and back at the ship. It beckoned to her, calling with sweet whispers and the taste of salvation.

She looked back. Back at the jungle and the campsite beyond where an epic struggle for survival was still raging.

In her mind, she could hear their fury, the roars of anger and exertion between two foes. Both seeking the ultimate demise of the other, and in the end, only one force would arise victories. Only one force would live to watch the sun rise.

As Solita stared into the trees, she remembered the promise she had made to Thorn while he was still strung up to that totem.

_“I’m getting you out of here if it’s the last thing I do.”_

Those words echoed hauntingly in her mind. She hadn’t even meant them in the terms of their ultimate freedom, and yet they kept repeating over and over again inside, like if she didn’t obey them now she would be condemning her friend to a fate worse than death. Making herself worthy of the true Hell and all its suffering.

_Since when is he my friend?_ she thought. _Since when do I have to keep my promises to a beast like him?_

And yet, her mind kept repeating the words she’d said to him. _“I said I’d get us free. . . . Together. . . . For whatever it’s worth . . . I kept my word. . . . I kept my word of_ honor _. . . .”_

Solita felt her heart as it tore itself in two: one side split between going back for Thorn, while the other begged for what could be her one and only shot at freedom.  
She pursed her lips, shut her eyes, and gripped the explosive tightly in her hand.

_Honor versus Freedom,_ she thought, debating it for a long, long time.

Then, Solita opened her eyes. She made up her mind.

“Oh, fuck me.”

\------

Black Jaw stalked to the toppled tree where Thorn had fallen, ready to put the final shot into the downed hunter with his smoldering plasmacaster. Aiming, he peered over the side and snarled viciously, finding nothing but a small, smoldering patch of flames. Clicking and snarling, he was suddenly broadsided by Thorn in full camouflage letting out a roar of rage and determination to put an end to this fight once and for all. Wrist blades drawn, ready to rend Black Jaw’s head from his shoulders when the bigger hunter countered with his own single blade.

The sound of clashing metal rang out through the camp.

The hunters slashed and swung at each other relentlessly, cleaving their blades, trying to tear the other to pieces. But neither was able to land that one, decisive blow.  
And then, Black Jaw did something Thorn did not expect.

He reared his head up high and crashed down hard against the top of Thorn’s skull. His cloaking system surged, and Black Jaw did it again, sending a volley of blue-white electricity surging over Thorn’s armor.

Again and again, Black Jaw slammed his head down with all the force in his body, first dazing his enemy, then ruining every last sensor in Thorn’s already-crippled mask. But with each continuous strike, Thorn every hard hit to the head until he could no longer tell up from down or left from right. He dropped to his knees. Finally, with one last smash from Black Jaw’s armored skull, Thorn’s mask broke away, revealing a large track of florescent green streaming off his cracked brow.  
Thorn slumped forward in a daze, not knowing what had happened or why he could no longer see.

His head hurt.

The world was spinning and it wouldn’t stop. It was making him sick.

Black Jaw grabbed him by the throat and turned his head up, making Thorn face him in his weary haze. Mandibles twitched in aversion to the attack, opening to show his teeth, but he was unable to make any sound at all come out.

He had to get free, but he was in so much pain.

Keeping his prey steady, Black Jaw reached up and placed his hand carefully over his mask, and he pulled it free with a wretched _hiss_. Thorn managed a weak growl, but it came out broken and strained, flaring his mandibles in a final, rebellious attempt to scare off his assailant. But all Black Jaw did was take his mask away, flare his huge, ugly tusks out wide, bare his razor-sharp teeth, and let out a fearsome roar right before Thorn’s very eyes.

Hideous, evil, red eyes glowed like hellfire in the night, burning the very atmosphere with a malicious, loathsome flame. And as Black Jaw rose his single wrist blade up, Thorn never took his eyes away from his killer. Refusing, even in the face of death, to give up his honor—his warrior pride.

Black Jaw let out one final roar of victory, and then—

“Hey! Fuck face!”

Black Jaw whipped his head around in a fury, outraged that someone would dare to disrupt his moment of triumph.

There, less than ten yards away, Solita stood with one arm raised and the stupidest grin in all history plastered across her face. Her mud-induced invisibility was starting to dry and crumble away, no longer worth what it had been once before. His eyes widened in shock.

“I think you forgot about something.” Her grip tightened around the detonator in her hand. There was a devilish look in her eyes. “Me.”

And then, there was a single _bleep_ and an eruption of flames and debris detonated at the base of the totem where Thorn had once been tied—and where the two hunters were less than fifteen feet away.

The entire stone structure came toppling over them, and Black Jaw had just enough time to separate from Thorn when the sharp point at the very top speared the ground right where he had been standing, avoiding the still-dazed Thorn by a mere foot.

Black Jaw whirled around at Solita, chest heaving from the fight and a renewed frenzy of overpowering rage. He roared long and loud, mandibles flared and tusks twitching. Thorn was a distant memory; for, now, the sheer force of all his hatred centered around this one, pathetic, infuriating human.

All Solita could do was to grin wider, because as he roared the totem began to list under the force of its own weight. Black Jaw didn’t notice it until he saw it from the corner of his eye, and his roar cut short to dive out of the way as the massive monument came down on both his legs with crushing force, successfully pinning him in the dirt.

He let out a roar of pain and fury.

Solita threw the detonator away and ran for Thorn. Startled to see him in such horrible condition, she wasted no time grabbing one of his huge, thick arms and heaved it over her shoulders. He let out a weak growl of surprise, head lolling as she tried to drag him to his feet with all her might.

“Come on!” she cried out desperately, pulling and jerking him every which way in an effort to either get some sort of leverage or to get him to stand under his own power. “Get up! On your feet, big guy! Come on! _Get up! Up!_ ”

His cloaking system sparked and surged as she strained herself to lift him. She bared her teeth and struggled with a yell, heart pounding faster than a racehorse’s hooves, and then every muscle in her body flushed with red-hot blood and power. She hauled him up off his knees and to his feet, stumbling forward with nearly all his weight leaning over onto her side. He growled weakly; though, the sound was the most pathetic thing she’d ever heard.

“How many times am I gonna’ have to tell you, huh?” Solita said, panting and straining—her words racked with endeavor. “I’m getting us out of here, dumbass, and I don’t know if you noticed but _us_ means you, too.”

Thorn groaned something that was probably incoherent even in his own language, let alone in something she might understand. His eyes fluttered open, seeing shapes and blurred flashes from the fires, and turned his head back.

Solita hissed, feeling the move pull at her a bit. “Eyes forward, fella. If you trip, I’m kicking your sorry ass while it’s down.”

Thorn looked at her with dazed, dumbfounded eyes, not at the boldness of her words or even the fact that this tiny, human female was virtually carrying him, but that she had come back for him. A human had come back for him.

The coordinates to Earth were preset into the ship’s autopilot. She had an opportunity and every right to go back to her home planet and leave him behind, and yet she put that on hold to go back for him. To save his life. A hunter like him.

This human, she was nothing like the rest of her kind.

Behind her, Solita could hear Black Jaw roaring and snarling as he tried to pull himself free of the massive totem. _Yeah, you try being tied to one, you sorry bastard. Maybe I shoulda’ got some rope and strung you up instead,_ Solita thought, daring to glance back at where Black Jaw was trapped.

He thrashed and struggled on the other side of it, pushing and pulled at the massive multi-ton, carved stone structure. He clawed furiously at the ground, barking, snarling, and roaring until he managed to squeeze just a few inches forward and turn. With all his might, he put his huge hands on the side of it and _pushed_ , arms trembling and mandibles flaring with a roar of power. He pulled one leg free, and then, finally, the other, retrieving his mask and slipping it back on.

When he stood up, uninjured from the weight of his prison, he whipped his gaze to the fleeing pair and locked directly on the shape of a human.

Solita’s eyes snapped wide. _Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!_

_“Shit!”_

Solita let go of Thorn and pushed him forward in hopes of the momentum carrying him a greater distance from the camp. It did, but he didn’t get far before he fell into the edge of the tall grass and didn’t move.

Black Jaw roared and charged her, seeing her purely from the tiny cracks that had begun to form in the drying mud. But Solita didn’t run. She stood her ground and waited for him to get close. He swung his arm to cleave her head off with his claws, and she ducked and rolled right between his legs, pulling out her bone daggers at the same time and giving him a few nasty gashes on the inside of his thighs, earning a burst of florescent green blood.

Black Jaw howled, startled and enraged, and turned to get at her again, but she was already running back toward the camp. She could hide herself there, and with the bonfires all around she could mix her heat signature in among them and be completely unseen to the hunter once again.

As she ran, Solita could feel the stab of her ribcage and the sharp pain from holding the knife too hard. If this hindrance persisted, it could be a major problem.

Black Jaw dashed for the center of the camp and then stopped, looking around and growling angrily for the human, but he could see nothing beyond the iridescent glow of the fires. Targeting system scanning over everything that stuck out, he listened but heard only the crackling of burning wood. He sniffed the air, but he could smell nothing more than the scent of dirt and smoke.

And then, like a demon from the shadows, Solita came running at him from the side, knives holstered, dawned with that very same axe, raised to one side, and bashed him upside the head with it—hard. His head jerked back harshly, stumbling with a growl of shock and sudden pain; his mask took the brunt of the damage. Solita came back around and did it again, thrashing his skull with each crack of the axe and further damaging the sensors in his helmet, but she didn’t stop. She kept coming around at different angles, again and again, hammering the axe down and across his head with all her force plus the momentum of her sprint.

Black Jaw roared with each strike, angry and pained and growing dazed from the incessant abuse. He widened his stance to keep on his feet, trying to look up before each hit to stop the attacker, but his sensors were crackling and flashing from the beating they’d already taken. He caught a few glimpses of the silhouette only to be greeted by the axe again each time.

Finally, Solita took refuge behind one of the wooden columns nearby, panting and holding the axe at her chest. She had to catch her breath. This constant struggle for survival was no help for her stamina, let alone with these sudden bursts of fighting and running. It was wearing painfully against her injuries, and she tried to slow her breathing for the sake of her agonizing ribcage.

Her heartbeat, on the other hand, would not slow down.

Black Jaw shook his head, sounding with a mix of clicks and growls jumbled together as he came back to himself. He looked around, vision obscured by the flashes of mixed signals buzzing and crackling across his visor. Clicking, he sifted through all the sensory perceptions only to find each malfunctioning as badly as the last, until he came to the sonar perception and scanned the area thoroughly while it still had some use to it. It was with that sight that he stopped his search on a gnarled, wooden pillar. There, his mask displayed a small blurb pulsing just behind it, beating fast, continuous, and hard.

_Tha-dump! Tha-dump! Tha-dump! Tha-dump!_

Solita panted as she gripped the axe tight, one hand on her bosom trying to quell the thunderous pounding within. She calmed herself, listening for Black Jaw. Waiting to recover before she went back to try to finish him off. It was proving to be quite the task, though.

But Black Jaw was quiet. Solita thought he would be roaring with fury right about now—frustrated and enraged. He couldn’t see her, so wouldn’t he be trying to find her right about now?

She sucked in a breath and held it, forcing her lungs to calm and her heartbeat with them. Only when a glimmer of red caught the corner of her eye that she realized why Black Jaw was so suddenly quiet.

“Oh, sh—” She started to say, but stopped herself in favor of simply running for her life.

Black Jaw locked on with his tracking system, firing off shot after shot from his plasmacaster, blowing that wooden pillar sky-high as Solita outran his first volley, but she was not so lucky with the second.

A shot connected with the ground behind her feet, and the shockwave it put off was enormous for the size of the bolt. Like nothing she could have prepared for. It threw her off her feet and down face first into the dirt, tearing away nearly all the dried mud and leaving her skin and clothes barren of its once vital protection.

On her stomach, Solita gasped and let out a long, weary moan of agony. Holding her side, she could feel the lump left over in place of where the rib was officially broken in two. The bone daggers dug into her thighs, countless sharp sticks and mulch pieces scraping against her soft chest and tender abdomen. Through the pain, she started to drag herself forward towards the axe, thrown several yards from her in the fall.

Black Jaw stalked up to her as she crawled forward like some lowly little animal. An animal that didn’t know when to quit. His massive clawed foot stomped down on her back, and Solita let out a huff and a high pitch wail, snatching her up by the back of her neck and setting her harshly on her feet. Only to knock her under the jaw and send the female flying.

Rattled and weary, Solita didn’t even realize what had happened until she landed. Flat on her back with the wind knocked clean from her lungs, gaping like a fish out of water until she finally managed to suck in a deep breath of hot, bitter air. The instant she did, she let it all out in a rush and ragged shriek of pure, bloody fucking agony.

Black Jaw sought back to her slowly, wanting to savor this kill. How satisfying it was to take his revenge on the pathetic little creature that had caused him so much trouble in the past few hours, let alone her group that had cost him his two comrades.

Solita watched him stepping closer, gasping for breath, rib digging at her insides. She tried to push away along the ground, her hands sliding across and digging weakly through the dirt. Black Jaw growled and kicked her under the chin, snapping her head and body back and nearly snapping her jaw out of the sockets, loosening a few teeth in the process.

She gaped, mouth wide open, longing for breath.

The world was in a dense, smoky haze. She couldn’t tell up from down, left from right. All she knew was that she had to get away. Away from this place and the monster with its deep desire to end her life.

But Black Jaw wouldn’t allow that.

He kicked her in the shoulder and shoved her back down only to lift her by the throat halfway, and he shot his fist down onto the center of her chest. There went her breath again.

He punched her again and again. Chest, stomach, ribs. Anywhere he saw fit to aim. Her scream when he got close to her broken rib was earsplitting and oh so satisfying.

Then he backhanded her under the chin a second time as she tried again to crawl away, putting her on her back one final time.

Solita couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Just keeping her eyes open was a mind-numbing feat of unimaginable difficulty. And yet, through all the agony she was experiencing, she still refused to surrender her will to live. That undeniable need all creatures are born with. That one instinct that tells them against all odds that they must go on. That they _must_ survive.

Black Jaw growled as he watched her eyes wander in every direction, looking but not seeing, as she still tried feebly to escape from her foe. It was here in this moment—this instant before the kill—when all hunters felt that rush. The one they all fought and killed for.

That final thrill of having ultimate power over their prey. The knowledge that the life of a creature—not matter how small or insignificant—was being held in the very palm of their hand.

This moment that he lived for, that he _killed_ for, he savored—Every—Last—Second.

And he _rumbled_.

His chest trembled with the sound intermixed with the pristine thrill coursing through his veins. His heart pounded, thundering behind his ears. He grabbed Solita by her throat and lifted her just enough to get her neck up off the ground, making for such an easy target.

Her body was limp in his hold, arms lolling at her sides with a little trail of red blood at the corner of her mouth. Awareness flashed back into her eyes with a gasp. She stared up at him, trying her hardest to draw in breath against the strength of his hold, and swallowed back the nasty, coppery taste on her tongue.

The blackness of his visor was terrifying. It felt of bloodlust, power, rage, and sheer delight in the kill.

And to think she had once felt resigned to the thought of a death such as this. The thought of being killed by Black Jaw, she once had come to peace with knowing it would happen. But not now.

No, that wasn’t how she felt, now.

She didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not by him. Not when she still had to fulfill her promise to Thorn. She’d given up her chance at freedom to save him, but she couldn’t give up her life. Not yet. Not like this. Not when they were just so damn close!

Black Jaw raised his arm, and his wrist blade snapped out.

Solita closed her eyes, and a single tear fell free, clearing away the dirt and grime where it fell. As if to cleanse her of this horrible crime.

“Forgive me,” she whispered for only herself and the Angel of Death to hear.

And when Black Jaw cocked his arm back for the swing, a thunder of blue-white sparks erupted from his back, and he let out an earsplitting shriek of agony. He fell to his knee, letting go of Solita, and twisted around to see Thorn sitting up where he’d fallen, plasmacaster in hand.

Not believing what had just happened, Solita used the chance and dragged herself from under Black Jaw’s half-fallen form, smoke rising from his back. The axe was only a few feet away.

Black Jaw raised his arm, aimed the blade, and fired it.

Thorn got it right to the shoulder, dead center, and he let his head back with a ragged howl of sheer, bloody pain. Solita’s eyes widened in horror. Heart sank into her stomach.

_No . . . !_

Black Jaw turned his attention back only to find the human gone.

Solita put her foot down before him, and it seemed as though time slowed between them. She saw the world through different eyes. Determined eyes. Angry eyes.  
Predatory eyes.

She brought the axe around with a single loud shout, and with every last ounce of her strength, she hit Black Jaw in the head hard enough to rip his mask clean off his face. A spray of glistening green blood flew through the air as Black Jaw slumped his head back an angle, clicking and howling in an unrecognizable manner.  
He pushed at his own shoulders, trying to lift his head, but Solita brought the axe down again.

She continued to swing— _hard._ And each one connected square with their target, shouting with each strike from the sheer force it took to power each blow.

Again and again, she struck him.

Fearless. Merciless. The essence of an undeniable will to live.

Soon, Black Jaw could hardly hold himself up. His head jerked back with a well-aimed shot to the jaw, and he drooped forward with a ragged, throaty growl. Green blood oozing from the cracks in his skull, down his face, in his eyes, and dripping off his jaw and all down his mandibles to the end of each tusk, staining his chest and the sand at his knees.

Solita swung the axe back up and brought it down, yelling sharply, and cleaved his arm off at the shoulder.

He let out another ragged growl of torment and slumped his head low, chest heaving with hard breaths, and he slowly raised his head. His face coated in a mask of vibrant, lustrous green, there was an indent on the top of his skull that leaked the thick fluid slowly to a cadence. A low, agonized sound chirred through open jaws, and he looked up at her with the eyes of an animal on its last legs.

But Solita did not pity him.

No, there would be no sympathy. No mercy. There had been none for her. There would be none for him.

Not for him.

And in this moment, Solita knew again what it felt like to be the hunter.

Her heart hammering in her chest; the sweat on her brow; the blood in her mouth; the ache in her side. All sensations intensified this moment.

This moment . . . before the _kill_.

She listened to the sounds of the jungle—the buzzing insects, the chattering night birds, the distant roar of the ship.

She took in the smells—dirt, smoke, sweat, blood. All vivid and sweet.

She fingered the grip of the axe—dense and hard, a formidable weapon.

The ache in her side and the sting in her hand dulled by the rush of power and adrenaline.

She took it all in, and savored—Every—Last—Second.

_She_ was the hunter, now. _She_ had proven herself worthy to survive in this beautiful, simple, savage world. _She_ would be the one who made it to sunrise. Her prey would not.

Solita raised the axe again, and Black Jaw looked up into the eyes of his killer with a long, tattered growl of last defiance.

The prey had become the predator.

“Let the demons sing for you in Hell,” she said, and she watched with unwavering eyes as the axe came around and sliced clean through his neck.

One last, garbled noise escaped through his jaws and his head tilted back, gushing a spray of brilliant, dazzling green blood, and fell from his shoulders. And his body fell right after it.

Solita panted hard and ragged, putting one foot back to keep from falling over. The rush of adrenaline faded slowly. The axe was heavy in her hand, but she couldn’t bring herself to let it go. Taking in the body on the ground before her, the full magnitude of what she’d done came to light in her mind.

She’d killed one. A hunter. A yautja. One of the greatest, most fearsome creatures in the universe, and she killed one.

What would happen to her, now? Would this make her a more valuable trophy? Would it put a price on her head? Would Thorn be angry that she’d interfered?

Solita gasped.

“Thorn.”

She turned around, but saw only a bump in the grass where he’d fallen.

“Oh, God, no,” she said and rushed to him as quickly as her injuries would allow. “Please, please, be alive.”

He was motionless when she got to him. His mandibles were slack, and his head slumped at an odd angle. Bruised, battered, and caked in the same green blood as Black Jaw’s. The blood on his head had darkened somewhat, but the flow from his shoulder was still fresh, and imbedded in it was the long, serrated blade that Black Jaw had come so near to killing them both with.

All his wounds. His terrible, horrible wounds.

It was too much.

The axe slid out of her hand, and Solita fell to her knees beside him, unable to register the pain in her own body. Overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness and regret. Here was the hunter she had vowed so strongly to free—who had saved her. And he was. . . . He was. . . .

“Y-you. . . . You saved . . . my life,” she choked. Her throat was aching. Her vision grew blurry. Her hands felt cold and empty as the rest of her body. Empty and . . . and lifeless. “W-why? You’re a yautja. . . . And yautjas . . . they don’t . . . they don’t save humans. . . .” Her voice strained. It was hard to breathe.

She hid her face in her hands, and a painful sob racked through her body.

“Why? I-I promised I’d get us . . . get us out of here, but, now. . . .”

Her shoulders shook helplessly, trying to feel angry at him for going and dying on her like this. She started to feel angry. Angry that he made her break her promise like this.

Sobs choked up in her throat, making such stupid, pathetic noises. Her fingernails scraped numbly against her scalp, hating herself and this wretched world, but also Thorn for dying this way.

Solita threw her head back and screamed at the very top of her lungs. A long, painful, sorrowful cry, and she threw her hands down onto his motionless chest.

“Goddammit!” she cried. The tears were falling freely now. “You had to go and get yourself killed like this! You stupid fucking bastard!” Her breath hitched on an anguished sob, clenching her fist over his dense hide, still warm with faded life. “Why? Huh? Why! Why, you idiot, why? You said I could trust you!”

Her face grew soaked and smudged with tears, eyes red and puffy. They slid down her face and fell slowly, one by one from her chin, stinging in her ducts and on her raw flesh. Dripping gently onto him like warm rain. Solita hung her head solemnly, her jaw clenching and unclenching in muted grief; her back and shoulders shook with the force of her crying. She couldn’t even feel the pain in her side.

“You said I could trust you,” she whispered achingly, voice cracking. The tears stung as they fell down her nose and dripped gently onto his chest. “And you went and got yourself killed by him. . . . _Him._ ” She lowered her face into her arms, convulsing with each little whimper. “I promised I’d get us out . . . and you made me break it. . . . You made me break it, you damn, stupid, stupid, idiot. . . . Why, Thorn? Why . . . ?”

She couldn’t help how she was grieving for him. Like a young child having lost something near and dear to them.

It was so strange for Solita to feel this way. Losing people she fought beside—close friends and strangers alike—was an everyday thing back during the war. She’d grown so accustomed to it that after a while she just stopped mourning them—stopped caring. Others thought her cold and heartless because of it, but the truth was she just didn’t have the will to cry over death anymore. It was too common for her to care who left this world and who got to stay.

So, why was this different?

Why did she care so much about what had happened to Thorn? A vicious, bloodthirsty killing machine that hunted humans for sport. Why was he so different?  
Was it because they had both been imprisoned by Black Jaw? Allied through a common enemy? Was it because he had given her the means to escape this foul, wretched world? Was it because he had saved her?

Or, perhaps, it was because she had begun to see him as something more than just some brutal, heartless monster.

When she looked into his eyes, she could see intelligence in them. An intelligence unlike any other. One that could only come about through countless years of lessons learned in the harshest, most unforgiving ways, teaching him of discipline, of humility, and of obedience. Yet, at the same time, it created a determination in him like nothing she’d ever seen. Determination brought about through passion, pride, ambition, and an unimaginable strength of will. A determination that craved endeavor in order to provide success.

And, now, she would never get to see those eyes again.

Those beautiful, yellow-gold eyes, like amber, that pierced all her defenses—leaving her breathless, weak, and at their complete mercy. And yet, coupled with that, they gave her a power she had never known. As long as she could see him or be near to him, Solita felt like she could do anything. The sheer power Thorn commanded within himself—it seemed to give her power of her own.

But, now, she was powerless. She was weak. She was . . . _human_.

“Please,” Solita grieved quietly, hiding her tears against his huge chest. “Please, Thorn, don’t die. . . . Don’t leave me, please. Not like this. Not like this. . . .”

She just laid there and grieved for a long while, and soon her mind began to grow numb and weary. Her senses muddled together in a big, incoherent mess of sounds, smells, and sensations. Buzzing with a deep, thrumming base that consumed her every thought.

Her tears began to come more slowly, now, but she didn’t want them to stop. She wanted to keep crying, to keep mourning Thorn, but something wasn’t letting her. After everything he’d done, he deserved at least that from her, didn’t he?

And then, Solita thought that maybe it wasn’t her grieving that was making her head feel numb. And the sound she heard wasn’t buzzing. Rather, a low reverberating bass that she could only describe as the purr of some massive animal. It made the body beneath her vibrate softly.

Swallowing back a sob, Solita picked her head up. Her eyes were misty and they stung with tears, and it took a short moment for them to clear—aided by the rumble traveling up her arms and into her head.

What she saw—she thought it was a dream.

His eyes were bright as liquid gold as they looked at her. A little pained and exerted and unbelievably exhausted, but they were looking at her, and they were oh so beautiful.

“Th-Thorn?” Solita stuttered, righting herself just a bit. She was afraid it was a dream. Afraid he could disappear any second. “Y-you. . . . Are you really . . . alive?”

All he did was stare at her for a moment, suspicious of the name, but then he inclined his head, upper mandible twitching once. The purring sound continued, reverberating deep in his chest and tingling against Solita's skin.

She had to know for certain, though. She had to convince herself that this wasn’t a dream that would become some cruel nightmare when she woke up.

He watched her every movement as she came close, briefly putting her hand on her side as he searched for any sign of mal-intent. When he found none, he simply watched as she moved her hands to either side of his face. Lightly, hesitantly, her fingers grazed the flesh lining along his mandibles. They twitched and clacked together, surprised, and he eyed her as she tried again, but this time she didn’t draw back.

The skin was smooth and dense, but elastic to allow for movement. She could feel the bones underneath—solid and sturdy—connecting to the tusks that looked so sharp and intimidating. She touched them carefully and they twitched away, his purr faltering in favor of curious clicks, and she glanced at him for permission before touching them again. They were sharp, very sharp, made of some hard, ivory-like bone.

She couldn’t believe this was happening.

Her hands wandered along his face while her eyes took in every detail—memorizing it, savoring it. The greenish veins that lined the soft, pink inner lining of his mandibles. His sharp teeth and the soft palate behind them. The dusty-gold color of his skin and the way it darkened into brown in places and then grew speckled with black.

Her fingers brushed over the little, spine-like hairs that began just under his eyes, and his clicks melted back into a purr that was even louder than before. The sound of it was mind numbing, and it cleared her head of so many things, leaving her soothed and—needless to say—completely blissed out. Closing her eyes, breathing slow, she followed the direction of the little thorns all along his face, smoothing over the ones on his brow gently with her thumbs and following the grain wherever they led her, continuing up to the top of his head. Minding his injured skull, she felt the wet blood on her fingertips, careful not to hurt him. Her hands remained there as she breathed.

Long and slow, she exhaled and pressed her brow softly against his own.

Not a single cell in her body felt afraid of him, now—not of his razor-like tusks and the way they had a clear go for her throat; not the sharp claws that could dig out her heart in an instant; not even his wicked strength that could break her like a twig should he ever find a desire for it.

No, she was not afraid of him.

She was . . . _happy_.

“You’re alive,” Solita breathed softly under her breath, taking deep wafts of his strange, otherworldly scent. His purring was all around her now, rendering every other pain and worry obsolete. She felt like she could stay like this forever.

Thorn answered her with a continuous purr, not allowing it to falter for an instant. He breathed in time with her. As bizarre a sensation as it was, Solita could not deny how incredible it was. It was as if he found this connection as strange and enjoyable as she did.

Solita smiled blissfully and opened her eyes, meeting Thorn’s yellow-gold gaze as he stared up at her curiously, head angled and tusks twitching. Then, she bumped his head on the ground—not actually trying to hurt him but at least wanting to get the point across that she had been upset. He must have really felt it, though, because his purring cut short as his entire body jerked, and he made the closest thing to an “ow” she ever imagined a nonhuman could make.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Solita scolded lightly, unable to put any real force behind it. “I thought you were dead.”

He groaned and huffed, letting his head loll on the ground. From what little Solita knew about his culture, she could conclude only that he had done something royally stupid and probably deserved a good old fashion ass-kicking for it, but she couldn't bring herself to do it even if she wanted to. She was just too happy to see him alive.

She could only smile and giggle softly at how exasperated he looked with his mandibles slack and taking such deep breaths, staring down at him as her hair fell over her shoulders.

It took another minute or so before he finally righted himself, and the howl that came with it alerted Solita as to how much pain he was probably in. That, at the very least, was something she could relate to. Then, Thorn reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of the blade protruding from his shoulder and started to pull it out with a low, agonizing growl.

“Stop!” Solita exclaimed and snatched his hand. “Don’t do that!”

He snapped his head to her, still growling, and flared his tusks, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“You’ll only hurt yourself more doing that. Let me help.”

Whether or not Thorn wanted her to help, he couldn’t seem to decide, but he lowered his hand anyway and let Solita do as she wanted. Regardless of how it came out it was going to leave a scare. He just wanted it gone.

Solita kneeled beside him and ripped a shred of material from the bottom of her shirt, wrapping it tightly around one hand. Thorn watched as she pressed her wrapped palm against the back of the blade, holding his bicep carefully as leverage.

Her only warning was: “This is gonna’ hurt.”

Thorn only got to brace himself a little before she shoved the blade all the way through and out the back, grabbing it and pulling it through the rest of the way like a needle and thread.

He let out a tense, garbled roar and ripped good portions of grass from the ground, eyes shut tight as Solita tossed the horrible, green-spattered, serrated thing away and unwrapped the material from her hand, winding it around his shoulder in hopes it would stem the bleeding. He shook his head, tusks scrunched in with a low growl shaking through his entire upper body.

He groaned heavily, and when the bleeding finally stopped he began to look around as if in search of something. He found it as soon as he caught sight of Black Jaw’s body. For a long moment, he stared at the bloody, beheaded corpse with a strange look on his face. He turned to Solita, eyes intense with some unrecognizable thought or emotion, glancing from the body of the fallen hunter and back to her again.

The hunter that had imprisoned him, beat him, and come so close to butchering him in the end lay dead on the ground not far away. To overcome one of Black Jaw’s race was no small feat, even for the mightiest of warriors. And yet, the hunter that had killed him was human. This human.

_“M-di h’chak,”_ was what he said. The words were harsh with a growl from somewhere in his chest, mandibles twitching to every syllable. Thorn looked down at Solita and raised his hand slowly, and when she didn’t draw away he laid it strongly upon her shoulder. _“M-di h’dlak.”_

Solita stared up at him curiously, searching through his eyes, and then reached up and lightly touched his hand. It was warm against her skin, soothing and pleasant but still firm and very strong. His purring started up again, and she closed her eyes at the sound, letting it reverberate through her mind and cloud every other feeling.

Solita could only smile and respond, _“Hulij-bpe.”_

Thorn laughed. A harsh, throaty sound that made his shoulders tremble up and down despite his injury.

Solita managed to get to her feet with a little effort, holstering the axe in a belt loop and holding her side now that the pain was returning. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to breathe already. Now, her broken rib had probably all but dislodged itself to float somewhere amidst her insides.

She could still manage a few light breaths, though, and she never let go of Thorn’s hand, ready to haul him up again if need be. The hunter looked at her curiously, head cocked as she smiled.

“C’mon,” Solita said. “Let’s get off this damn planet.”

Thorn’s mandibles spread apart then, much in the fashion Black Jaw’s had once when Solita first saw his face, but it was different. This look had no wicked intent behind it. No lust for her blood or the sadistic desire to watched her writhe pain. There was only gratitude to be seen in it.

Gratitude and the deep, wordless understanding shared between two fellow hunters.

All Solita could do was to smile right back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _M-di h’chak._ – “No mercy.”  
>  _M-di h’dlak._ – “No fear.”  
>  _Hulij-bpe._ – “Crazy.”


	5. Savior

Solita stared at the thing in her hands. A cold, dark, lifeless thing with eyes like obsidian, staring into her soul with a residual bloodlust unlike any other.

Running her fingers over the cold face, she felt the long cheeks, the decorative edges that tapered sharply into a fierce sneer, the upraised ridge of the glaring brow, and the jaw bone locked onto the base. Tanned by age with every tooth still sharp and solid as the day it was taken, like some undead beast, it was the very piece that characterized its once owner.

Solita stared into its eyes and then leaned her head back, resting only halfway up the back of the oversized copilot seat.

It was one of the many tokens of this world that she would carry with her always. A token of memory and a living testament of her own will to survive. Black Jaw’s mask, it was her trophy, now. Along with the axe she’d killed him with and the two bone daggers that had given her her freedom, they would remain part of her life forever. Like scars on her heart.

Her head lolled to the side, and she looked at Thorn as he went through the final preparations for takeoff. Running his hands across the controls in front of him, there was a blue hologram floating in the air between them. It displayed the game planet and other things she didn’t pay much attention to.

The hum of the ship was exceptionally mind-numbing. She breathed in deep. The smell was out of this world: metallic overall but distinctly that of the hunters, and there were other, less recognizable ones mixed in. There was also the leftover scent of the jungle—thickened by humidity and the smell of greenery, but also the musty spice of smoke.

Smoke.

And to think she’d once associated that smell with sitting around a bonfire with her parents. It made her think of younger, happier days, once. But now all it reminded her of was the sting of her bonds, the bone-deep ache in her side, and a sense of impending doom by the hands of a some cruel, maddening force with an insatiable lust for blood. And yet, that smell reminded Solita as much of Thorn as it did of Black Jaw, for it was in the presence of those haunting flames that she had met him.

How bittersweet, she thought, and traced the cuts on her wrists absently. They would be scars someday.

She stared out the window at the trees.

She wanted to leave. There were too many wretched memories of this place. Memories of all the lives lost, of nearly losing herself to Black Jaw, and of nearly losing Thorn, as well. They were things she wanted to forget, and yet she knew they would never leave her.

She wanted to go home, but she didn’t know where home was anymore. After everything that had happened, things would never be the same back on Earth. And the most frightening thing of all was a thought peeking out in the back of her mind. A bizarre idea which made her think that maybe, just maybe, human life would no longer be good enough.

Solita let her breath out and allowed the mask to rest on her leg for a moment. She couldn’t seem to fend off a shroud of dizziness that blanketed her mind, but she blamed it on the deep rumble of the ship. Like Thorn’s purr, in numbed her thoughts into a blissful haze—one she wished never to wake up from.

A flurry of clicks stirred her back into reality after a moment, and she saw Thorn staring out the front of the ship with his mandibles splayed and a low growl. Outside, a figure stood at the edge of the tree line. Solita squinted to see it, but could barely make anything out. Apprehension gripped her stuttering heart, fearing the worst in that instant, but with a closer, harder look the image flipped into one she recognized. Two _people_ she recognized.

“I don’t believe it,” Solita gasped and pushed up out of the chair only to stumble, the mask knocking her thigh as it hung to her waist by a cord. She was halfway out of the control room when Thorn growled, and she stopped. “Open the main door. Please, Thorn, I have to help them.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Thorn’s tusks twitched, letting out a low, chirring growl of disagreement, but then he turned and hit his fist on something on the dash. A deep whirring sound started up from low in the ship’s frame. Gleaming, Solita lumbered down the corridors as quickly as she could, managing to get to the main door just as it opened.

The gale from the thrusters hit her like a tornado and threw her filthy, matted hair into a frenzy. It sucked the air from her lungs and she held onto one of the supports to get as close to the edge as possible.

She greeted them with a wide smile of admiration and disbelief. They, however, looked to be more in shock at the sight of another human.

“You’re alive!” she exclaimed over the roar of the ship.

“We thought you were dead! How’d you make it this far?” shouted the mercenary, Royce. His gun and bag were strapped over one shoulder because leaning on the other was the sniper woman, Isabelle, and she looked to be in rather bad shape.

Solita couldn’t believe they’d both managed to survive so long. Lord knew she wouldn’t have been able to do it in their shoes, but having someone to rely on must have greatly improved their chances of survival. It certainly had for her.

Solita shook her head and shouted, “You don’t wanna’ know!” She leaned forward and held her hand out to them while keeping herself planted firmly inside the ship, the ache in her side getting a backseat. “Here, take my hand! Let’s get you guys out of here!”

The looks on their faces were priceless.

Royce passed Isabelle off to Solita first, and she carried the woman away from the door as he hauled himself inside. Solita muttered to herself about how the two of them looked like hell, and Isabelle scoffed in bemused agreement. There weren’t any seats this far back into the ship, so she just sat Isabelle on a low extension of the wall so she could catch her breath. Her rifle clattered on the metal floor, but she scarcely seemed able to register it was even there. Just by how she looked, Solita could have sworn she’d been drugged.

Royce plopped down on the ground beside them, breathing hard through his mouth as he looked up at Solita. She shoved her palm hard on a large switch high up on the wall, and the main door began to rise up and close again, cutting off the windstorm and allowing things to regain their calm.

Their eyes were worn-out but riddled with gratitude.

“You guys are all that made it?” Solita asked, reassuring herself that Isabelle wasn’t going to fall over onto her face. “How’d you survive that explosion in the caves?”

“We got out just in the knick of time,” Isabelle slurred tiredly, arms limp at her sides. Her voice was thickened by her tired, Hispanic accent. “We lost the convict . . . after getting out of the caves when the hunter showed up. Then we lost the Yakuza. . . .”

“Yeah, I found his body. He and one of the hunters killed each other.”

Both their eyes came alive momentarily at the knowledge of that, and they glanced at each other as if recalling something. They must have guessed something along those lines, but there was no way they could have proven it.

“What about the doctor? Did he make it out with you?”

Isabelle scoffed at his mention, and her head leaned limp on the hard wall. “Yeah, freak turned out to be a murderer. Bastard tried to kill me.” She hissed then and put a hand on her hip.

“You okay?” Royce immediately looked up at her, concern showing through his eyes.

Her voice was strained, brow wrinkled, “I’ll be fine. It’s just my muscles catching up with me.”

“I know how you feel. I’d say we’ve all seen better days,” Solita added in.

She double checked Isabelle just to make sure there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with her.

“And what about you?” Royce asked, breathing calmed but still ragged. “How’d you manage to survive? And how the hell did you get the ship?”

There was a grin that spread on Solita’s lips, shifting to lean her hands on the wall and let her head hang for a moment, trying to straighten out her ribcage. She chuckled at the very idea of explaining it to them, flinching for an unnoticeable instant. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. . . .”

Royce gave her a curious look, but didn’t get to question it.

A hard _thunk_ shuddered through the floor, and Solita saw Thorn standing before the long incline connecting them to the corridor to the control room. His mandibles flared with an angry snarl, fierce as he eyeballed the two newcomers. Not at all happy to see them.

Royce got one look at him and freaked. _“Holy fuck!”_

Isabelle fell right out of her seat in fright.

Royce was already off the wall, gun braced against his side, aimed and ready to fire. Thorn roared at the threat, driving forward and ready to give the insolent human a piece of his mind. Solita had only an instant to react, and she pinned the barrel to the floor with a foot and raised her hand and stopped Thorn in his tracks.

“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy!” she exclaimed, first to the angry hunter and then to her fellow humans. “Calm down, it’s okay.”

“ _Okay?_ How the fuck is this okay? It’s one of those motherfucking monsters!” Royce tried to yank his gun out from under her, but Solita’s boot had a good grip on the sight.

Thorn snarled furiously at his words, readying his claws to rip the human’s head off.

“The one from the totem,” Isabelle muttered, wide eyed as she took shelter behind a raised pillar in the wall. “It got free?”

“I set him free—”

“You _what_?” Royce pulled harder for his gun, now, and Thorn glared down at him in vehemence, ready to tear him to pieces. Solita’s hand was the only thing keeping him back.

“Everyone just calm the fuck down! It’s a long story; I’ll explain later.” She gave Thorn an earnest look, pushing on his chest a bit. He growled angrily as his tusks flared, giving a good show of his teeth as he leered furiously at Royce. “Please,” she said to him quietly, “they need our help, and I can’t just leave them behind.”

He continued to growl, though; the other male kept trying to retrieve his weapon.

Solita finally blocked Royce from Thorn’s view and tried again, her eyes pleading this time. “Thorn, please. What if they were your comrades? Would you want me to leave them behind?”

It gave him something to think about, but his glare remained as he stared at her for a long, hard moment, hissing through his tusks.

“I owe them my life, too, Thorn. Please, let me repay them.”

One of his mandibles twitched, and Thorn glared daggers at Royce before glancing at Isabelle. She flinched under his gaze, and her fingers curled emptily. Her rifle was within arm’s reach, but not making a move for it helped him decide whether or not this was going to be a problem for him.

He huffed at the two humans, gave Solita a sideways glance, and stalked back towards the control room, clicking and growling disproval the whole way. Solita put her hand on the wall to steady herself and let her breath out.

“You idiot!” she shouted at Royce and kicked his gun hard with the toe of her boot. “What were you thinking?”

“What the hell did you want me to do, huh?” he shot right back, shooting up taller than her. “I don’t know where you’ve been, but we were being hunted by fuckers like him,” he jabbed his hand at where Thorn had left to, “for the past two goddamned days! We’re all that’s left because of those things back there!”

“Well, he’s not one of the fuckers that was hunting us, now, is he?” Solita just about screamed. She got right up in his face—nose-to-nose with the deadliest glare in all her life. Angrily, she hissed, “You don’t know all the details, and I can understand that, so I’ll fill you in a bit. The only reason I’m alive right now is because of him, and I will not stand while you wave that thing in his face. He almost ripped your head off just now because of it, so I suggest you be a little grateful.”

 _“Grateful!”_ Royce threw his arms up in disbelief and began to pace a crisp line back and forth. “Grateful! Grateful! How the fuck do you expect me to be grateful knowing that thing could kill us at any moment?”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“And how do you know? Can you read his fucking mind?”

“No, I just know, all right? He’s not like the ones that were hunting us!”

“Again, how the fuck do you know? He’s a goddamned monster!”

 _That does it,_ Solita snapped.

She had Royce by the collar a second later and slammed him up against the hull of the ship. His body hit with a hard _thud_ , and she made sure he got a protrusion of metal in his lower spine as emphasis. Royce was shocked at first, but then he leered right back at her as she growled, baring her teeth like an animal defending its territory.

“Now that I have your attention,” she gnarled between her teeth, shoving him harshly when he tried to push forward, “I want you to listen and listen well. I won’t stand for you disrespecting him like that, got it? He saved my life twice when that last hunter nearly flayed me, and now he’s willing to take us all home when he has absolutely no obligation to do so. So how about showing him just a little bit of thanks, huh?”

Royce narrowed his gaze and looked her straight in the eye. “And what does that make you? His friend or something?” His hands gripped tightly to Solita’s wrists. Painful on her dirt-caked cuts.

“Call it a camaraderie.”

When she let go, she did so with a shove and made sure he hit his head out of spite. Royce pulled his vest back down and stood straight, not letting himself get flustered despite the obvious blow to his ego. He scrutinized her for a moment, suspicious of this change in her. Solita hadn’t been anywhere near like this when they first met in the jungle two days ago. Dare he say it, but she had been almost docile back then. A fleeting glance to her waist proved otherwise, and apparently Isabelle was thinking the exact same thing.

“What _really_ happened to you?” he asked, pointedly and quiet. “Between now and when we were separated in the caves.”

Dismissive of the interrogation, Solita scoffed. “It’s a long story, and I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Well, I’d say we’ve got plenty of time, now.” He pointed at her waist. “And you can start by explaining how you got that mask.”

She narrowed her eyes, but did so regardless.

The ship took off as she filled them in on what had happened to her. Getting captured by Black Jaw, escaping, freeing Thorn, and the battle afterwards. She had the mask in her hands the entire time, cautiously tracing the cheeks and the edge of the jawbone, wary like it could come to life at any second. Like it would somehow respawn the very same Devil that had died with it.

She stared into its cold eyes and blinked back the haze that tried to blur her vision.

All the details had just spilled from her lips. She even went so far as to say how guilty she felt about leaving Thorn behind to fight Black Jaw alone. She hoped that by confessing that it would lift some of the pain off her heart. It did, a little. She just left out the part about how close they’d gotten afterwards. Explaining what it felt like to be so near to him—well, Solita doubted it would help them see her in a better light. They’d already given her odd looks when she called the hunters by name.

“You actually killed one of them,” Royce said on a brief note of wonderment, looking over the axe in his hand. He inspected the blade and weighed the balance. There were specks of dried green all across the hilt and the edge, and he got a strange feeling from holding it. Like just by touching it he could somehow feel what it must have been like to slay a monster such as Black Jaw. The rippling of muscle as it cleaved through flesh and bone; the wet slip and spray of blood; the final roar of the beast. “With this?”

“Took his head clean off.”

Glancing at him from the side, Solita felt a bit edgy without the axe. Even now that the threats were gone and the game planet was a shadow in her memory, she felt like the axe had become a part of her—a part she didn’t want missing. It was because of it that axe she was even still alive. She wanted it back, even going so far as to think that Royce was defiling its significance by touching it. Only one human should be permitted to lay their hands on it, she thought.

But she said nothing.

She traced the sharp row of gold-brown teeth with her thumb delicately, interpreting each like its own miniature blade. She tried imagining the creature it must have come from, but couldn’t. The only thing she could pit the sight of the bone against was Black Jaw. She flinched unconsciously, thinking of all the beings slain by his hands, and blinked her eyes clear again. The eyes of the mask had begun to swirl.

Isabelle seemed more concerned about Solita, though. “I can’t believe you survived that,” she said, sitting on the same portion of wall Solita leaned against. She was doing much better now that she could finally rest her nerves. Whatever had drugged her appeared to have worn off. “And all he kept you alive for was to sing?”

“For his entertainment, yes. He liked to toy with most of his kills.” She said the word almost painfully, and Isabelle grimaced.

Isabelle followed Solita’s gaze and looked into the eyes of the mask. She thought it was rather frightening and hard to look at, but she couldn’t see what Solita saw in them. She couldn’t see the bloodlust and rage, the fury and the lust for the kill, or the haunting flames that seemed to reflect an infernal soul.

His roar echoed in Solita’s thoughts, and she leaned her head back. A few minutes ago, she came to notice how the world was working itself into a slow spiral. There was a taste of bile in the back of her throat and a nauseating ache in the pit of her stomach. It had been a long time since she’d last eaten, so she figured it must be from low blood sugar. She was hungry, wasn’t she? It was hard to tell with her side. . . .

“Sounds like a charmer,” Isabelle mused, heavy on the sarcasm.

“You have no idea.” Solita shook her head and pushed carefully off the wall, murmuring softly, “I’m gonna’ . . . go check on Thorn.”

She tried to walk towards the incline that connected to the corridor to the bridge, but it pulled in a different direction and slowly grew farther and farther away. The floor listed on one side, shifting and tittering playfully under her feet to make her stumble. She realized just how hot the air was. But her insides felt cold.

“Are you okay?” one of them asked. Though, she couldn’t tell whose voice it was.

“Yeah, I’ll be—I’ll be fine. . . . Just tell the ground to stop . . . stop moving. . . .”

And then the floor came up and slapped her in the face.

A hard impact jolted her, and she cried out in a shrill wail. Curled in on herself, her body convulsed with waves of pain so sharp they stopped her cries before they even made it out. Her insides burned like hellfire. A blade twisted around inside her, giggling and grinning as it tested how long it took for the pain to finally kill her.

“Solita,” Isabelle called. Her voice was oddly deeper; it wavered up and down, echoing. Her face was fuzzy and distorted, grasping Solita’s head in both her hands. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even breathe. Her lungs were hitched and shallow pants were all that kept her from suffocating, and each one came more painfully than the last. Eyes shut tight and teeth gnashed. She rolled onto her back, arched at the shoulders, and dug her fingers into the wiry, metal grate. She tried to steady herself. The world wouldn’t stop spinning.

She wailed, shrill and piercing, and dug her hand into her side and writhed with agony.

It finally caught up with her. . . .

Isabelle wrenched her hand away and lifted her shirt. Her face pale, mortified. This was another thing she hadn’t mentioned.

“My God,” she murmured, and Royce looked equally alarmed.

“It’s broken!” Solita cried, lifting her head only to have Isabelle push it back down. “ _Ah, fuck!_ Don’t touch it!”

“Don’t move. You’ll only make it worse.”

“Worse than _that_?” Royce said as he kneeled beside her.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t punctured a lung, yet, or ruptured an internal organ. The fact she’s even still alive is nothing short of a miracle.” Solita shrieked when Isabelle touched the wound again, biting harshly into her bottom lip. “Solita, you’ve got to hold still. The more you move, the more it’ll hurt.”

Solita gnashed and let out a long stream of blasphemes, cursing everyone and everything around her, especially Isabelle. Royce held her shoulders down while Isabelle tried to assess the full extent of the damage.

“Scout snipers are trained to be their own medics, right?” Royce said, having difficulty keeping the younger woman still. “There’s got to be something you can do.”

“Yes, but we’re not trained to be surgeons! You can’t put a cast on a rib, let alone one this far gone.” Then she muttered almost dismally under her breath, “And I can’t treat blood poisoning without the right equipment.”

“There has to be something that can be done,” he insisted, showing strain as he tried harder to keep Solita down. “That thing will hear her at this rate!”

An idea sprang across Isabelle’s face.

“That’s it!” Isabelle turned and shouted his name as loud as she could, overshadowing Solita’s cries. _“Thorn!”_

Horrified, Royce completely forgot about the writhing body on the floor and clasped his hand over Isabelle’s mouth.

“What the hell are you thinking? Are you insane? That thing’ll kill us if he sees her like this,” he exclaimed in a hushed tone.

But Isabelle shoved him off and glared fiercely.

“He’ll be even more pissed if she dies from this, Royce! Think about it! He’s got to have something on this ship that can help her!” She did her best to keep Solita’s legs down as she made Royce go back to restraining her upper body. Despite her warnings, the girl wouldn’t quit writhing. Isabelle called out again, “Thorn! Whatever-your-fucking-name-is, goddammit, _help_!”

Solita wheezed shallowly through her teeth. A film of cold sweat beaded all across her skin, wetting her brow and dampening her clothes. Royce grasped her shoulders tight and pushed them back down, igniting another fit of curses that put a frown on his face.

Then, Solita puffed up her chest with as much air as it could hold, tilted her head back, and screamed the hunter’s name at the top of her lungs. Royce and Isabelle cringe. Their ears split at the horrible noise. Like a dying animal—shrill, awful, and agonized—Solita called out for the only one that could help her, now. Almost immediately, she was overtaken by the answering roar of the hunter.

“Fuck.” Royce glowered at Isabelle. “Anymore bright ideas?”

“Get away from her head. Keep her feet steady and make sure she stays between you and him.”

They changed places and Isabelle grasped Solita’s face and angled it so she could breathe easier.

“Solita, sweetie, look at me. Look at me. Thorn’s coming, okay? What do you want us to tell him?”

“Th-Thorn. . . .” she stuttered, looking at Isabelle but unable to register her face. She swallowed a breath. Her hands clenched hard, digging her nails into the floor. “B-Black Jaw . . . kicked— _Tss! Ah, fuck it!_ ” She panted raggedly and hissed through her teeth. “M-medi—medicomp . . . !”

“Medicomp? What is that?”

Isabelle didn’t get her answer.

Thorn charged in with a vicious roar, first at the only other male in the room, and then to Isabelle who was far too close to Solita for his liking. There was a fire in his eyes as his tusks flared, ready to tear both their spines out for what they’d done to his human comrade.

Isabelle just raised one hand in defense, though, and tried to keep the enraged hunter from killing them on the spot. She kept her head low and motioned Royce to back off. 

She explained, “She’s injured. I think the other hunter kicked her. Her rib is fractured and the marrow is leaking into her bloodstream. She’ll die if she doesn’t get help.”

Thorn didn’t need to be told twice.

Isabelle backed away and he immediately lifted Solita from the floor. She cried out at the sudden move, writhing against him and beating hard against his grasp. Even though this was the one person Solita knew could help her, his current actions weren’t. At all. The mangled rib was digging into her chest cavity and his handling of her only made it worse. One hand clenched into her body as the other went straight past his armor and dug long and hard right down his chest with her nails, lifting the flesh off his thick hide and leaving four lines of bright, florescent green. He only hissed at the abuse and rushed her down the corridor. Isabelle and Royce quickly followed.

Clawed feet impacted hard with each brisk step, and each time he jostled her she would wail and thrash more violently, making it harder to hold on. It reached the point where she grabbed onto a chunk of his armor and pulled so hard that it broke free and clattered on the ground. He didn’t stop to pick it up.

A door whisked open, and Thorn set her on a metallic table at waist height. Jolted by the sudden change in temperature, Solita curled over and howled, clawing at the surface in an attempt to somehow lessen the pain. Nothing was working. Her face was smudged and reddened by tears.

And she thought she’d been in pain before when Black Jaw was beating her. God did she have it wrong. This was a whole ‘nother ball game.

Thorn removed something from his person and set it down by Solita’s hip, opening it to a peculiar array of the most chilling, horrifying medical tools she’d ever laid eyes on. Among them: a serrated scalpel, a pair of corkscrew-looking clamps, a set of pincers, more menacing blades, and the biggest goddamned needle Solita had ever seen.

This was _not_ what she had in mind.

Fear masked the pain for an instant and Solita shouted, _“Oh, fuck no!”_ and tried to yank herself off the table. Thorn grabbed her leg and dragged her back, tearing her shirt open at the seam with a loud _rip_. He was aided by Isabelle and Royce as they arrived and each grabbed an arm and held her on her back.

“Fuck you,” she yelled at them, fingers and toes crumpling in protest and pain. “ _Ah!_ Fuck _all_ of you!”

They ignored her, though, and Thorn removed the scalpel along with a long, thick strip of leather which he thrust at Isabelle. She took it, confused, and he pointed his claw at Solita’s mouth. His mandibles twitched to some sound he was making, obscured by Solita’s shouts and curses. Then, he steadied her waist and brought the scalpel down, and Isabelle realized what the leather was meant for. She passed control of both the woman’s arms to Royce and immediately forced the strip between Solita’s jaws, restraining her head.

“Bite down,” she ordered. “This is gonna’ hurt.”

Solita only needed a glimpse of what Thorn had in his hand to comply, and she bit into the leather hard with tears streaming from her eyes.

Then the blade connected, and Solita thought she was going to die. Though muffled, her cry was like an animal being eaten alive—sharp, ragged, and bloodcurdling. Her heels dug against the metal surface, trying to free herself of this nightmare. Thorn, keeping her steady, grabbed a clamp to keep the wound open and then used the pincers to reach inside.

Solita’s eyes rolled back and her entire frame locked up with another muffled scream, kept on the pallet by Thorn’s strong hand when her body arched of its own accord. Isabelle whispered soothing things into her ear, telling her everything would be okay and that it would be over soon. But Solita wasn’t hearing it. The pain overwhelmed every one of her senses. Flashes of light consumed her vision, a high pitch keen split through her ears, there was a sharp smell that stung her nose, and a metallic taste flared across her tongue.

Only Royce and Isabelle heard the suction noise when the rib was extracted, and Thorn held it up to see the break for himself. Both humans averted their gaze, and Isabelle was grateful Solita couldn’t see it. Thorn set it aside and mopped up the blood with some absorbent piece of material, drawing out a pathetic choking sound from the poor human as she shut her eyes tight and gagged. Wishing the whole time that she could just die and be over with it.

Then, Thorn mixed together a blue, glowing concoction and lathered a tiny bit onto the remaining stump of the rib bone. With the main hindrance gone, there was little left that could restrain Solita’s next scream. Gagged or not, all three winced from the sound she made, and she convulsed extra hard. Only Thorn could relate to how Solita felt right now, but having a better pain tolerance made him wonder just how this little human was still conscious and not passed out from the pain.

The blue slush seared and sizzled on the bone, molding into the tiny, needlelike slivers and melding them all together into a smooth nub.

Finally, the pain became too great for Solita. Her body seized up one last time, head shoved back into the hard table, limbs crumpled in, and her eyes did a complete one-eighty in their sockets. Her body sagged immediately after, landing on the pallet with a light _fump_ that unnerved the two humans. A quick check of her pulse was reassuring, though.

Isabelle let out an exasperated sigh and carefully removed the leather strip from Solita’s mouth, surprised to see the teeth marks almost went completely through. Royce too relinquished his hold and then patted his hand lightly on the sniper woman’s shoulder, nodding sideways at the door. There was nothing else they could do, now. And they doubted Thorn would enjoy being in the same room as them any longer than he had to be. Isabelle nodded vaguely and left the piece of leather on the table, following Royce to the door. But she stopped to look back.

Now that the screaming was done, Isabelle heard the low rumble emanating from the hunter’s big body. It didn’t sound like his usual growls, but she didn’t really want to stick around long enough to compare the two.

“Will she be okay?” she asked.

Thorn removed the clamp that kept the wound open and took something from the medicomp she didn’t recognize.

He gave her a glance from the corner of his eye and then nodded once, changing the sound to clicks while his tusks twitched, strange hair shifting with each movement. He returned his attention to the matter at hand, and Isabelle nodded, leaving with Royce to avoid dawdling.

Thorn continued his work. Calmer now that the difficult part was taken care of, he worked on sewing the wound shut and stopped the bleeding. Pressing the delicate flesh together, he wove the needle through the wound and kept glancing to Solita’s face, reassuring himself the human was still alive. Her temperature had dropped considerably and her pulse had grown sluggish, but he felt she would make it. She’d made it this far. She wouldn’t be killed by something as trivial as a wound like this.

When he finished, he slathered more of the cauterizer over the stitches and listened to the sound as it sealed the wound shut permanently. He removed the syringe from the medicomp and filled it with a small dose of serum, injecting it near the main injury to accelerate the healing process and neutralize any possible infection elsewhere in her system. Her body clenched up and he watched closely should the pain bring her back to consciousness. He was relieved when it didn’t, though, and she slumped a few seconds after the needle was removed.

His chest rumbled with a chorus of purrs throughout the entire ordeal, a natural response for any yautja male in a situation such as this.

Purring was a sound that had a calming effect on members of his species, females in particular. After all, yautja females were much larger and stronger than the males, and they often grew violent when injured or distressed. It was habitual for any nearby male to purr in order to soothe her lest he become a victim of said frenzy. Thorn was relieved to know that it had a similar affect in this case. Even though Solita was human and of no particular threat to him, she was female nonetheless, and he could not overcome the instinct to calm her.

He looked over her body briefly, checking for anymore wounds. He found the cuts on her wrists and a few minor abrasions throughout her figure, deciding to clean up the more serious lacerations while he was at it. He cleansed them of dirt and lathered them in a generous amount of an ointment that would assist in the healing, seeing as they weren’t serious enough to need to be cauterized, and bound her wrists tightly in bandages. He stuck a gauze pad over the stitches on her side and bound it, too.

Gradually, her breathing returned to normal and her pulse gained back some of its original strength, but her temperature remained unnervingly low. Thorn found an insulation strip and set it over her, allowing his gaze to linger for a moment.

Humans looked so strange. Tuskless with blunt fangs and claws, they hardly looked worthy of a hunt. But then again, he imagined he must look rather strange to any human—frightening especially. It surprised him when he thought about it, but he couldn’t recall if she’d ever been frightened of him. He knew she’d been afraid of the other hunter, but there was never any sign of fear when she looked at him. Even when she had gotten so close to him after she’d killed their enemy—when he was certain she would back away from him in fear of his appearance—she surprised him by instead drawing even closer.

When he thought back to it, he remembered the sounds she had made when she thought he’d been killed. Her small body slumped over his, trembling and weak. She’d cried for him. Mourned for him. Lost, thinking he’d been stolen by the cold hands of Cetanu.

A female had shed tears for him. He was floored by the idea of it.

Yautja females generally cared very little about the males. The only purpose a strong male served to a female was to provide her with strong, healthy offspring. If a female ever discovered that a male had been killed on a hunt, it simply meant that he was not strong enough to fulfill his duty to her and reproduce, and there were still plenty other males that could do that for her. Had it been an Elder or a Councilman that was killed then maybe she would feel a bit disappointed that such a strong individual had been bested, but such males usually had many offspring by time they reached that rank so it wasn’t too great a tragedy. 

Thorn didn’t know much about how human females were, so he could only feel surprised at the thought of his life mattering to her.

He wondered if all humans were as full of surprises as this one.

Glancing at the medicomp, Thorn decided to treat his own injuries while he was there. It took a lot of effort to withhold the roar from sealing the wound shut on his shoulder and a hole in his side left by a plasma bolt—the initial injury that had led to his capture. His entire body tensed up and his tusks clenched tightly, yanking the needle from his abdomen with a garbled husk of pain ripping through his system. His throat stung from trapping so much sound in it.

He shook himself to be rid of the pain, rumbling softly. Setting his hands down to get his bearings, he suddenly realized his claws had landed in the human’s hair, tensing immediately. He waited for when she would wake up, knowing it would get him a severe reprimand. (He’d get the beating of a lifetime if she were a yautja.) But when she didn’t wake up or even move, he figured that human hair didn’t have the same purpose as for his kind.

He let his breath out and sifted his claws through it for a moment of curiosity, testing the texture and how light it was.

 _“Pyode,”_ he noted to himself quietly, checking for any signs of disturbance in her face.

The tiny strands baffled him. There were so many and so small, but bunched up they were surprisingly strong. Clumps of the black tresses matted together that way, but they came apart easily when he touched them. Tangling in his claws. Fluid, like water.

He cocked his head and his mandibles twitched, feeling a lock of strands made course by dirt. Dirt which crumbled away and left the hair feeling soft and smooth. It fixated him, and he found himself trailing his entire hand over it. Much of the pallet was obscured by the black strands splayed out across it, twining a mess of fibers between his claws. He leaned forward and sniffed discreetly; most of her scent was carried in it, although slightly masked by the smell of dirt.

She moved then. Her head lolled and startled him. He let go immediately and stepped away, driving all thoughts of the human from his mind.

She made a small, unintelligible sound through her lightly parted lips, and he decided he would leave her to her rest. Paya knew she deserved it.

Thorn allowed himself a fleeting glance over his shoulder, reassuring himself she was going to survive as the door whisked closed behind him. He wondered vaguely: _Why does her life matter this much to me?_

\----------

The world was in a haze. Colors blurred, shapes swirled. All of it jumbled in a heaping mass of incoherent nothing.

Solita wasn’t even certain if she was still alive at that point, but moving her arms alerted her to the fact that she certainly still was.

Limbs weighed down like cinderblocks, stiff as tree limbs and sore as all hell from days of unending stress and overwork. Groaning, she slumped an arm over her eyes, hating the glare of the lighting. Opening them was a feat. Rubbing the crust from her lids, she blinked until her vision came into focus and found herself staring hazily into a dim white light stuck into the ceiling panels.

“The hell . . . ?” she started to say and tried sitting up.

A sharp hiss spat from her lips and she grasped her side painfully. It stung like it’d been stabbed and felt burnt and raw as if it’d been scored with flaming sandpaper. The blanket fell away, and she was surprised to see that massive side of grotesque bruising partially covered by several layers of soft, adhesive white bandaging. She touched the lump over the gauze and flinched away immediately, recognizing the soreness and the pull of stitches underneath.

Solita tried to think back to what had happened, but most of it was in a haze. She remembered screaming pretty clearly. But more than that, she remembered the pain. A bone-deep, excruciating pain like something twisting around at the base of her chest cavity. With it came the discomfort of being held down by Isabelle and Royce, and she remembered wanting to break their fingers off just so they might let go. Then came the writhing and struggling and something reached down inside her and plucking out the very thing that had tried so earnestly to tear her apart from the inside.

She remembered the last words spoken that made sense to her, the ones she held onto for fear of their coming true: _“. . . She’ll die if she doesn’t get help.”_

Solita looked at herself and everything became clear.

Thorn had saved her life. Again.

Her gaze softened, and she traced her finger around the trim of the bandaging. A deep well of gratitude began to rise, and she took note of the wrappings bound tightly to her wrists.

Carefully and with a bit of effort, she swung her legs around the side and gradually regained her bearings. Her feet were bare, having removed her boots from her sore, aching feet while talking to Isabelle and Royce. There were rips and chunks of material missing all over her once-favorite pair of cargo work jeans, the blue color dirtied and filthy with a gray-brown coating of old mud. Her dim red shirt was in much the same condition, only worse with the entire left side torn open and shredded by Thorn—not that she was complaining about it. And her long, black hair was matted and clumpy, leaving her certain that she was on the verge of having a dreadlock or two.

Damn, she needed a shower.

Solita judged the distance to the ground and slid off the pallet. Unfortunately, her depth perception was way off, and she hit the ground later than expected. The force stung her feet and jostled her tender body. A stream of profanities hissed through her teeth and she clutched her side and leaned her shoulders back against the work table, face scrunched in torment.

“God, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she groaned with one arm around herself, eyes shut tight. “Shit, that hurt. . . .”

She took a moment to let the pain subside and looked around. Still in the same medical room she passed out in, she concluded, and then hobbled slowly to what she recognized as a door. Making her way through the corridor was an arduous task, but at least she appeared to be the only person out. Now, if she could only find Thorn. . . .

\----------

The hunter was seated in one of the two pilot seats in the control room. Chest and shoulder armor was removed to make himself comfortable; it was going to be a long trip.

He was busy in the middle of checking the ship’s internal systems for the seventh time in the past few hours. He kept convincing himself that he needed to make sure everything was in order. He had to be certain his captors hadn’t done anything to damage the ship while he was imprisoned.

But he knew the real reason behind why he was doing this. He was trying to distract himself. Trying to keep his mind off the human in the medbay. Every other second, his thoughts were drifting to her in one way or another. Wondering about her condition, if her core temperature was sufficient for recovery, if the serum he gave her would help her or harm her, if she even still had a pulse or not right now.

He growled at himself and forced his mind on more important matters.

He’d returned his mask to the stand where it would be scanned for the information it gathered on the game planet. Despite most of the systems getting ruined in his capture and during the final fight, its memory reserves were still intact so it wasn’t a complete loss. Though, he would still need to have it replaced once he returned to the clan ship.

Near to the mask was a stray piece of his armor retrieved from the floor of the ship, torn clean off by the human in her distress. He touched his chest. Another reminder of that incident was evident in the shape of four, bright green trails left by her blunt claws. He hadn’t bothered to treat it because it wasn’t serious—just a scrape, it wouldn’t even leave a scar. It merely surprised him to realize just how strong something so small could become when the situation called for it. If he ever found himself in that kind of situation again, he would have to be more cautious about it. Not that he planned on there being a repeat.

But the injury and his damaged armor were a small price to pay. She was the reason he was still alive. Saving her life was the least he could do to prove his gratitude. A deep exhale left him at the memory; though, not in dismay or anything of the likeness. In truth, he didn’t quite know how he should feel about the matter. About having his life saved by a human. It was an odd thought, but he couldn’t say it disturbed him that it had been a human—of all creatures—that freed him. Why, he wasn’t entirely certain.

A sensor to his right illuminated and flashed red, indicating movement coming up the corridor behind him. Faintly, he could hear the light patter of approaching feet, and he figured it was probably one of his least-favorite passengers coming to annoy him. Setting the autopilot, Thorn turned around quickly with a growl to drive them off, but it evaporated in his throat the instant it formed.

His tusks flared and his eyes widened in shock.

She stood a short distance from him. One arm stretched around her midsection as support for the injured side, the other hanging limp. Her stance was a little forced and shaky, as if the effort to remain standing was almost too much to bear. He felt compelled to get her off her feet for fear that she might collapse, but something in her eyes kept him where he was.

Thorn had never seen this look on a human before, let alone did he know what it could possibly mean. It was a strong, hard stare. Dark brown eyes drilled into him—so dark they were almost black. And he kept still for her, wondering the whole time as to what her human mind could possibly be thinking. Then, her eyes seemed to soften, and she looked out the large observation window behind him.

Outside, asteroids weaved in and out of sight, a comet glimmered blue in the distance, and planets passed by slowly, lazily. Distant stars vanished behind the edges of the glass, and Solita took a careful step forward. A deep, dark tapestry laid out before her, painted with the breathtaking gleam of millions upon millions of diamonds and giant, majestic, otherworldly shapes.

A curious purr hummed through Thorn’s chest. He cocked his head.

“How long until we reach Earth?” she asked silently. Her voice was soft and a little raspy. Sore from screaming and unmistakably tired.

Thorn cautiously held up three of his claws.

“Three . . . days?”

He nodded once, knowing that information was probably important to her. He wondered what force could possibly be great enough to draw someone so well beaten and tired out of slumber. Paya knew he’d be sleeping it off for days, and yet she had risen after only a few short hours of rest.

Solita nodded in understanding and continued slowly forward, stopping little more than an arm’s reach from him. That look surfaced in her face almost immediately, made clearer by sheer proximity. The lower stance of his seat left him a bit under eyelevel, and Thorn felt his purrs flounder for an instant under the weight of her gaze, breathing caught before he started it right back up again. He hoped she hadn’t noticed, but if she did, she made no sign of it.

It felt odd for Thorn to be stared down by a human like this. Especially since he couldn’t pick up any signs of aggression in her, and he thought for certain that there would be a challenge by how her gaze never once faltered on him. They simply watched each other for a long, quiet moment, and Thorn’s eyes darted to her arm when she released her side.

Solita hesitated, expression broken by uncertainty, but she was encouraged when Thorn made no move to stop her. Carefully, she took one more small step closer, and her fingertips grazed over his dense, muscular hide. Her eyes glued to where their skin connected, and she took in the strange feel of his body—uncannily smooth, hard with a thick layer of solid muscle. A base of dusty yellow smudged by brown and then darkened further by speckles of black.

Only now did she see the myriad of scars once covered by his body net and armor. They shrouded him like a dim, yellow-green spider web, spanning over every inch of him—arms, shoulders, torso and legs and with a few on his head and face as well. She saw the freshest of wounds on his shoulder and side, and although they appeared to have been cauterized she knew they were well on their way to becoming scars of their own someday soon.

It was on a note of humorless amusement that she saw—standing as she was—how their injuries matched up almost perfectly. _I guess neither of us will ever truly escape him,_ she thought sullenly, and her lips curved into a sad smile.

Solita moved her fingertips slowly, deftly over his skin, feeling the tiny spikes that made a line down the middle of his chest, and to the right of them she met four, fresh green lines that further marred his hardened, battle-scarred flesh. Her face finally portrayed the guilt she felt by it. For having hurt him when he was only trying to help.

“You—” Solita started to say, but her breath hitched as she met his gaze.

Yellow-gold eyes were staring at her. Piercing and incisive. She could feel it in the center of her being. Cutting through her defenses. Leaving her raw, vulnerable, and weak. Her heartbeat thundered behind her ears. Churning in her gullet.

She felt his curious purr humming through her fingertips, tickling them, and it traveled all the way up her arm and into her head. Senses dulled, lulled into a dim trance, anchored to reality by the glow of his eyes alone.

After a long, dizzied moment, Solita whispered, “You saved my life . . . again. . . .”

Her breath drew in quickly, but left her slow and shaky. A quiver in her spine betrayed the condition with a light tremble in her frame, and it did not escape Thorn’s keen eyes. He cocked his head the other way, and his purring kicked up a notch. Unaware that he was the one making her like this.

“How am I ever supposed to . . . stay even with you at this rate, huh?” she wondered aloud, feeling a little winded.

Thorn’s mandibles twitched with humor, and he huffed with what she knew to be gruff laughter, earning a small smile from her in response.

He reached up slowly and gingerly set his claws over the back of her hand. Solita didn’t even flinch, and she watched him close as he traced little circles over her tender flesh, surprising her with his gentle ministrations.

Her hand was easily dwarfed by his. Able to fit it several times over in his palm, and Solita knew full well that he could crush her bones to dust if he wanted to.

 _If he wanted to,_ she voiced the idea hazily in her thoughts.

But he didn’t.

His purring returned, and he appeared to be fascinated that he could feel the little ridges of bones beneath her skin. She was far more delicate than she originally appeared.

“You don’t mind that I call you Thorn.” It wasn’t a question.

He nodded without taking his attention from her hand. His rumbles resonated through the air, tricking her eyes into thinking the room was trembling when it was only her mind itself that shook. Solita fought to keep her grasp on reality, but he was making it so difficult. Did he have any idea what he was doing to her?

She managed to keep her voice, but the words themselves kept trying to escape. “I know . . . I know you must have a name of your own, but . . . I doubt I could p-pronounce it. . . .”

Her eyes glued to him as his ministrations continued.

Her arm trembled lightly, and she didn’t realize she lost her balance until she found her palm flush against his chest, and Thorn was steadying her around the waist, purring exchanged for worried clicks.

His fingers encompassed almost all of her waist, nearly touching at the back. She could feel the light scrape of his talons on her bare skin, grazing the small of her back, and it dragged her into a state of awareness where her breath hitched in her throat, tensed. Preparing for the pain to hit.

It was a long moment before she realized it never did.

Through the careful pressure of his hold and the light touch of his claws, Solita felt no pain from her side or any other injury. In fact, she barely felt his hands at all. Vaguely, she wondered how something so strong could still be so gentle.

Grasping to the threads of reality, Solita took a moment to collect her nerves. Aided by the support of Thorn’s hands, her breathing synchronized to a steadying heart—one breath for every few beats.

She inhaled slow and let it back out even slower. Listening to the soft sounds he made. The rise and fall of his body with each breath. His scent in the air—thick, musky, like nothing she could discern. She flexed her fingers over the wide curve of his shoulders, brushing the little barbs that stuck out from them.

She listened to the dull thrum pulsing steadily in his chest, feeling it under her hands.

_Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump._

The warm touch of his fingers, slightly cooler than her own.

The light scrape of his talons. Tender, docile. Grazing the base of her spine.

Hazily, she thought of how easy it would be for him to kill her right now. He could gut her, break her, bleed her, and what would there be to stop him?

She was—in every essence of the term—at his mercy.

On this threshold of life and death, at the mercy of this killer, this beast, this warrior, Solita knew again the joys of the hunter. The ecstasy of a beating heart. Blood coursing like fire, igniting the senses. Rapturous breaths, gasps, and wheezing lungs. The thrill of anticipation and uncertainty of fate. Holding a life at the precipice of death, knowing that you and you alone are what stands between them and their extinction.

 _If he wanted to,_ she thought chillingly.

A shiver snaked up her spine.

Slowly, painstakingly, his claws followed the tremble in her frame. Grazing torturously along the base of her spine, following the curve up, taking in the feel of each and every little bone and then stopping to tease the edge of the bandaging. His purr rumbled through her core deeper, more resoundingly than before.

Solita was officially no longer in her right mind. And she realized she didn’t care.

Her chest ached, yearning for things she couldn’t comprehend. Things she couldn’t explain and didn’t understand.

She could still smell the jungle on him. The sweat and the blood. Pain, exertion, anticipation. A roaring heartbeat fueled by rage and adrenaline. The ever-constant threat of death.

The aftermath of battle. It hung in the air like a hot, midsummer fog.

Her hands followed the brawn of his shoulders, blind to logic and the real world. She felt his dense hide, the ridge of each grand muscle. Fingertips traced the brass coil around his neck—sleek, tarnished, and warmed by his body. Each rim polished and perfectly smooth. Her thumbs grazed just under his chin, finding the joints of each lower mandible. Humming and vibrating with the sound of his purrs.

Thorn’s eyelids fluttered, and his tusks opened slightly for breath. Taken by the gentle sweep of her small, human hands. He let out a low, excruciating hiss from his teeth and thought, _What is it you do to me?_ Not that he cared about getting an answer.

Her light ministrations glided along his face, memorizing him even more thoroughly than before. Until she reached the base of his hair, and his breathing almost stopped entirely. A jolt of electricity shocked his system, and his grip grew suddenly tighter and strained. Scraping her soft flesh and leaving long red welts with his claws.

She gasped lightly. Lost in her mind, no pain could be felt.

She could feel her cravings grow more intensely, now. Begging her—pleading for her to give in to them. To give in to _him_.

Losing control of her own desires, Solita held him tight and drew him closer, and Thorn met her halfway. Their brows pressed flush against each other, and a blissful sigh parted her lips; her thumbs massaged the bones beneath his eyes. Thorn slowly regained himself as her fingers drew away from his hair, leaving him empty and expectant.

Solita stole deep wafts of his skin. Then, she felt the light scraping around her jaw and gasped, realizing what it was.

Two tusks grazed lightly along her face. Feeling her flesh. Tracing the bones. Keeping her in place. Enveloping her completely, consumed utterly. The way his hands explored her body, claws following her ribs all the way down her hips, leaving no pain from his touch, was thoroughly intoxicating. They lingered there for a moment, and Solita felt his hot breath against her face—peculiar, but far from unpleasant.

His large hands held her steady and, with only a little bit of strength, drew her one small step closer. His purrs grew, and Solita could no longer differentiate fantasy and reality. It was too good for her to care about how this moment should probably not be happening.

She just never wanted it to end.

She stood between Thorn’s knees, and her heart thundered behind her ears, stuttering frantically in her chest. Trembles racked her spine. Sharp, fearsome claws teased her heated flesh, sensitive to the touch. Blood surged like rapids in her veins, frenzied and uneven. But his brow pushed closer to hers, and she found her calm again. Without thinking, she rubbed her forehead against him, and his purrs rumbled through her body.

Thorn followed the edge of her horrible bruises tenderly with his thumb. Taking in her bizarre, human scent. He knew the smell of humans from his hunts. He knew how they usually masked their natural scents with artificial ones, leaving a horrible chemical smell that burned his nose. But her scent had nothing that would hide it from him now.

He breathed it in deep.

It was the scent of the game planet. The jungle lingered on her clothes and in her hair. Her delicate flesh still carried the sweat, the blood, the dirt and grime, and the marks of endeavor from battle. The scent of the hunt hovered around her like a potent musk. It filled his senses and overwrote every rational thought in his mind. Her will to live, her instinct to survive, it was stronger than most hunters he knew, and possibly even his own.

His hand bumped the mask that hung at her waist by a cord, and with nothing to stop him, he held her tiny hips and brought her the rest of the way forward.

Her breathing stopped for an instant, and he listened as her heartbeat faltered. He set his paw on the small of her back and the other carefully over her throat. Her pulse staggered beneath his thumb, claws intermingling with her hair. Then, as if some explosive had been set off inside her, her heartbeat skyrocketed. Her frail, human arms wound around his neck with surprising strength, and he felt every muscle in her body push up against him. Merging them as if to make them one.

He never even thought about how wrong he was by doing this—for engaging in such an act with a human of all things. He never once considered that he might regret these actions later on. He could only live in the moment as it was, and while he did, he savored every last second.

His grip tightened on her hips with a possessiveness that should have astounded him.

A low, fierce growl broke through his purrs, and he held the small female close. Claws and tusks tangling in her hair, overwhelmed by her smell and the sound of her beating heart. Her pulse throbbed achingly under his hands, kneading her waist and nestling into the locks that dangled before her throat and collar bone.

Solita’s hands grasped the coil around his neck, and her body melted into him of its own accord, hot breath wafting over his flesh. His arm wound around her back and molded their bodies together, pressing her cheek against the top of his head and feeling his warm skin. Her name for him rolled off her lips before she could stop it, and a deep, hearty growl rocked her world.

Sharp claws grasped her hips, tearing thin strips of material from her jeans, and hauled her up off the ground before she knew what had happened. Her knees set on his thighs, crushing their bodies together and robbing her of breath in the most spectacular of ways, satisfied to know he was in as much need for contact as she was. Solita clutched his shoulders, and he felt the sting of her blunt claws drag across his skin. The pain was nothing, though, and it served only to intensify the sensations, proving to him that this female was indeed accepting him.

She was craving him, demanding his attentions like a well-seasoned breeder, and she hadn’t even seen any of his trophies before. It was so bizarre for this to be happening, but he would sooner face an army of hard meats than stop her now.

Thorn could feel his restraint slipping, and, with some difficulty, he growled the human’s name in hopes of drawing some kind of response from her: _“Ssssor’ee-tuh.”_

For a moment, he thought she didn’t understand, but he listened as her breath shuddered through her lips, and with it came a low, guttural sound that he couldn’t describe. It was a sweet sound to his ears, and he wanted her to make it again so badly, but before he could think of what would happen next, she did the unexpected.

Her soft, supple chest pushed hard against his body, threatening to steal his breath. Her hands grasped his shoulders fiercely, strong in her passion, nails dragging over his hide, and she brought her strange mouth forward. He tensed, expecting a bite (it was the only logical thing his clouded mind could think of), but that wasn’t what she did. Instead, she pressed her soft, fleshy lips against his head, and for a moment Thorn was taken by how good it felt.

The tender warmth of her delicate skin overtook his mind, and he didn’t notice her hands leave his shoulders until they were twined into the base of his hair.

He thought he would go mad when every nerve in his body suddenly became a livewire. He never heard her gasp when his talons raked across her skin. He could only feel when her grasp tightened into a strangle, and a hard jolt seized through his system. His mandibles clenched hard, and a garbled husk escaped them.

It must have been the quick jar of pain that brought Solita back to awareness, because when Thorn came out of his euphoric haze, her arms were wound tightly around his neck, and she held him close. In truth, it made him feel slightly like a suckling being coddled, but he could honestly say he had never been held like this before. Not even by his own mother. And it was irrationally gratifying with the way it made him feel.

Dazed and delirious, Thorn encircled her in both his arms and rested his head in her bosom where she held him. His purrs returned, and he nuzzled her as she pressed herself closer. Burying her face in his head, her black hair fell around them like a dark, soft curtain, blocking out the world. Stealing each other’s scents with every breath.

Quietly, Thorn heard her whisper into his flesh, “Thank you, Thorn. . . . For everything.”

His tusks spread into quiet a smile, and he answered her with his deep base of purring and delicately wove his claws through her hair and caressed her collar bone with his tusks. She dared to leave another tender kiss upon his brow, and Thorn’s purrs continued strongly.

They shared a long, long embrace together, and it was somewhere in the midst of it that Thorn realized something. Something dangerous. Something alarming and profound, and as deadly as it was enticing:

He didn’t quite want to go to Earth anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cetanu – the yautjan god of death  
>  _Pyode._ – “Soft.”  
>  Paya – the most highly revered of all yautjan god, considered the greatest hunter of all existence


	6. Haunted No More

She saw her mother. Standing there, smiling eagerly, her eyes stained with days of tears and anxiety. Solita ran to her and embraced her, murmuring her “Sorry’s” and “Forgive Me’s”. Her mother, Anna, held her tight and told her it was okay, and for a long, long time Solita told her everything that had happened. About the game planet and the hunters, Royce and Isabelle, and even Thorn, too. Anna smiled and said it was so good to have her back. Even her father and brother were there, and they told her it was all right, now. She was safe. She was home.

And then the fires started.

It was surreal the way it happened. All around her, buildings crumpled and trees went up in flame. It was Hell on Earth.

No, not Earth. It was the game planet, and it was burning.

Solita screamed and shouted and tried to run, but the ground rumbled and giant black spires rose up and trapped her inside. And impaled atop each spire was the face of someone she loved. Her parents, her brother, every friend she’d ever had. She clawed her face in horror, trembling and wailing with the madness of it all, and witnessed in bizarre, unholy terror as the ground uprooted itself and rose into a monstrous chasm. There, on the cliff before her, she saw herself, dangling belly-up—bloody, pale, and lifeless, eyes black and void—held there by the clawed foot of a terrible demon. A demon black as night, painted by the blood of his kill, and eyes like obsidian. Eyes that reflected an infernal soul, gazing with a bloodlust unlike any other, trembling with rage, fury, and the thrill of the hunt, of the kill.

In his hands, he held his trophy. A head. A mask. Oozing blood of the finest, most lustrous green, like a glorious sea of neon emerald.

And he roared, loud. Piercing her soul. Twisting her heart. She screamed.

Solita awoke with a start. Panting hard, skin warm and glistening with sweat.

Isabelle groaned and muttered something, woken by the noise, but fell right back to sleep under the lull of the ship’s engines. Her head nestled into Royce’s bicep; he had not been disturbed.

Solita put her face in her hands and wiped the sweat from her brow. Taking a moment to catch her breath. _Just a dream,_ she thought. _Just a dream._

Shaken and unwilling to return to slumber, Solita got to her feet and shuffled out into the corridor. Her, Royce, and Isabelle had made their homes in the very back of the ship, the only place the two other humans felt comfortable while sharing the same roof with a hunter. She didn’t like being so far from the control room, but she felt an odd obligation to easing the minds of her fellow humans.

Her arms wound around her torso, feeling an uncanny chill through the heat of the air. Stroking her bicep, Solita walked until she found the control room.  
Her heart sank upon finding it empty.

She thought herself a fool now that she was here. What was she doing? Had she expected to find Thorn there? What would she have done even if he was? Tell him about her dream and ask him to make it all better? Like a frightened little child? Thorn was a hunter, a yautja. Why would he care about dreams?

Solita ran her hand absently down the side of the captain’s chair and sat down, pulling her knees up against her chest. There was the sting of her stitches pulled for a brief moment, but soon it faded and she leaned her head on the seat. It dwarfed her, and she felt so small and insignificant compared to it. Compared to the might of a hunter.

A sigh parted her lips and she let her head loll against the seat. It was warm, but still cooler than the hot air. It felt good. Soothing to her heated flesh. Refreshing. Oblivious to her own actions, she nuzzled it lightly and listened to the dull, acoustic thrum of the ship. There was a residual scent that filled her senses, and she could not fight the smile it brought to her lips.

But the fantasy did not last when her nightmare flashed behind her eyes. The demon with its trophy. Howling in triumph of some unseen skirmish, dripping streams of ruby and emerald. Like a macabre tapestry as beautiful as it was horrific.

Her spine shuddered and she pulled her legs in closer, willing it all away, but the more she thought of it the more it kept coming back. Worse and worse each time. Soon, she was rocking back and forth, holding herself and trembling. The roar echoed in her mind and in her heart, breaking and tearing and clawing its way through. Like a ravenous beast. Nails raked slowly down her scalp, pulling her hair, lifting off skin. Tears stung in her eyes, and quivering shoulders made her stitches hurt.

 _It’s not real,_ she thought through the anxiety. _It’s not real. It’s just a dream._

The demon’s eyes grew darker the longer she watched. Hollow and foreboding. Deep with a darkness so profound, it rivaled the depths of the abyss.

His roar crackled like thunder, raining down with the blood of his kills. Drenching her in a grotesque cocktail of pain, fear, anguish, and helplessness. Hapless creatures of unknown might, caught in the merciless grasp of this monster, doomed. She heard their cries in her head and felt their pain—sharp, like needles under the skin. Never again would they know the warmth of the day or the glow of the sunrise.

 _Go away,_ she thought. Her body quivered under the torrent of madness and dread. _It’s not real. It’s just a dream._

The demon laughed, husky and loud. Garbled with the feast of blood. He was mocking her. Amused at her feeble attempts to will away this horrible vision.

_Leave me alone. You’re not real._

He growled and hissed, shoulders rocking. Loving it. 

_You’re not real. You’re dead. You’re dead, you’re dead. I killed you myself._

The demon came forward and snatched her by the throat. Lifting her high over the precipice below. His eyes—blacker than any evil, colorless, lifeless, soulless—seemed to convey to her a message: _“You cannot kill a memory.”_

Trilling wildly, he raised his blade. Already dripping with blood. Beautiful, lustrous, florescent green blood. The ground began to shake and crumble away.

Solita woke with a shout. There was a force jostling her back and forth, a great pressure on her shoulder. Wild-eyed and stricken with panic, thinking it was the demon come to life, she slapped it away with an outcry of fear and tumbled right out of the chair. Everything happened too fast. She didn’t hear the startled bark she got in response, but next thing she knew she was suspended by her belt, staring at the metal rim of the dash inches from having cracked her forehead on the control panel. Her breath was gone, she felt like she just got a fist in the stomach, and her stitches burned with renewed agitation.

It hauled her up by her middle and, at the same instant her feet touched the ground, circled her in a shield of soothing warmth, and the world around her faded to unimportance. He purred, and the nightmare melted away. It took a bit of force, but she turned around and put her arms tightly around his waist, her hands scarcely able to meet at his back.

The tears came before she could think to stop them.

For a long time, Solita was inconsolable—despite the soothing hum of his purrs and even his claws combing delicately through her hair. Her head hurt, her eyes stung, and her stitches felt sore and raw. Soon, Thorn’s front was saturated in tears, and he lifted her gingerly into his arms and carried her out of the control room, paying no mind to how she clung to him and wept, head spinning and disoriented.

A short moment later, there was a door that opened and closed behind him, and Solita vaguely registered a feeling of panic as she was lowered down. She felt softness beneath her, like a bed of cushioned fleece, cool against her inflamed abdomen, and Thorn shifted his arms out from under her. Solita sat up quick, ignoring the abrupt pain and fumbled in the dark and on the uneven surface, grasping emptily at the shadows.

Her eyes glued to the darkness, desperately trying to find his silhouette. “W-wait,” she called. Her only reassurance was that she could still hear his purrs from somewhere in the room. “Thorn, what is . . . ? Where . . . ?”

Then the lights flashed on and she gasped, hiding her eyes from the sudden glare, but immediately the brightness dimmed into a dull white hue. She looked around. Wherever she was, she’d never seen a room like it anywhere on the ship before. Roughly thirty feet by thirty feet in size, ten feet to the ceiling, and similar in design to the rest of the ship, the only thing that revealed the nature of this room was the relatively long, deep, and overall massive pelt-strewn bed she was sitting in.

She looked up at Thorn as he crouched down before her, his head cocked and his purrs sounding strong. He reached up slow, and Solita kept still. He swiped his thumb lightly across her cheek, catching a tear just as it fell. She sniffed once and drew away, suddenly ashamed for having cried her eyes out like that.

“I-I’m okay,” she rasped, trying to convince herself more than Thorn. “I just. . . . I got something in my eye.”

Thorn snorted once at the lie, even less convinced than she was. He focused his attention on her side and carefully touched his claws to where a faint red stain had begun to form. It stung immediately on contact, and when Solita flinched, he growled something in his own language that she didn’t understand. But she figured it was probably something obvious and derogatory, like “Now, look what you’ve done.”

 _Not like I did it on purpose,_ she wanted to say.

Solita watched in silence as he retreated into a separate room and came back a moment later with his medicomp and a bolt of fresh bandages. She cringed at seeing the metal case, remembering the events of the previous day, and sat by edgily, shirt raised as he cut through her old bindings with a claw.

“You won’t use any of that blue stuff again, will you?” she asked, unable to hide the unease in her tone.

Thorn glanced at her and slipped off the bindings, taking a moment to assess the damage and then shook his head. Solita sighed in relief and muttered her gratitude.

They sat in silence for the next ten minutes or so, Thorn concentrating and Solita watching him work. He’d blotted away the small specks of red that formed around the stitches and then lathered them in a clear, goopy ointment before rebinding them. She held the tattered remains of her shirt up as he worked, and by time he moved on to change the strips on her wrists, her mind had wandered back to the dismal finale of her dream.

“Thorn,” she began, skin prickling as the demon’s roar echoed in her mind, “do you . . . do you know what a nightmare is?”

He regarded her for a moment, head cocked, and shook his head, tusks clacking with a curious purr.

“A nightmare is what humans call a ‘bad dream’. Events play out in our minds as we sleep; usually they’re happy, comical even. Other times they’re strange, but sometimes they can be frightening.” She took a second to swallow, willing the tremble in her spine to go away. But her voice forsook her as it crackled and dropped. “And when the dreams are bad enough, they can haunt you. . . . Even when you’re awake.”

Thorn trilled softly and released her wrists as soon as he was done, never once taking his eyes from her. His brow tightened and his mandibles came together. A sinking feeling rose in his gut, and he knew she was going to cry again.

Solita wiped her eyes, trying—and failing—to be rid of the tears. To be strong in front of Thorn and not let something as trivial as a bad dream affect her so. But her resolve was fading fast and nothing was going to bring it back now.

Shoulders quaked with gradual force. She could keep it in no better than if she were holding back the tide. “I’m so sorry, Thorn,” she bleated. “I don’t mean to be like this, I-I just. . . .” She shook her head and lowered her face in shame of the tears, croaking with the soreness in her throat. “It’s only been a couple of days, but it feels like an eternity. I have no idea why, but . . . every time I close my eyes, I see him. He’s everywhere. . . . He’s haunting me, Thorn . . . because I killed him. . . .”

The purrs grew louder and the pelts shifted as a warm vice encircled her tightly. Hauling her in close. A large, warm hand pressed tenderly into her back and mandibles wove delicately through her hair. Drawing her mind away from the turmoil. His chest vibrated ever so softly, and Solita could not help but lose herself in his arms. Her reserve melted away. Just as it had before, Solita felt her walls crumble to dust all around.

She cried for a long, long time, no will to control herself, and she told him everything about her dream. The demon with eyes like obsidian—foreign and yet so familiar—painted in her blood and his. Her death by his hands, and Thorn’s, as well.

And all the while, Thorn never so much as loosened his hold. Her tears were painful even for a hunter like him, making his chest ache with guilt and turmoil, and he wished the whole time that he could say something to put her tortured mind at ease. But he could do nothing more than hold her, stroke her, and purr for her.

It was a long time before Solita’s unrest finally grew quiet. Her head throbbed, and she was exhausted. No more tears left to cry, her mind and body gave up the struggle and succumbed. Giving her the peace she needed, and she fell asleep surrounded by him.

\----------

It was quiet, calm. Tranquil, even.

There had been no dreams, no nightmares. Only a deep, deep slumber where an eternity could have passed and she never would have known.

Waking was simple and a slow process. Starting at a dim haze where there was no true reality, only a shadow of it, a silhouette. Soon, though, she began to regain awareness of things. First, a softness on her shins and toes, as if she were lying on a bed of silk or goose down, but everywhere else was something different, something more. She couldn’t describe it at first, but as she returned to herself she recognized a shape. Large more than anything, and smooth. Very smooth.

She ran her fingers over it and found how they rose and fell to a pattern, like fog over rolling hills. As if tracing the grooves of a maze, firm as it was soft, warm as it was cool. Next, she found the scent—like nothing she could place, and yet she knew it so well. Like every animal the jungle, but more so.

Leisurely, she opened her eyes and remembered exactly where she was.

Her mind must still have been asleep in some way, though, because she could not think of this place as being real. It was too amazing. Too perfect. Too wonderful.

His body that gleamed faintly in the dim white light. Casting little shadows in the vale between every muscle, shimmering softly at the height of each bulge. She traced her thumb over his chest and listened, mesmerized, as the long rasps of his breath sounded right beneath her ear. She rose and fell slowly to its rhythm, and it was with a playful smile that she decided to try and match it.

She listened close.

_Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump._

Her cheek nestled into him, perfectly content to lie as she was forever.

_Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump._

Fingers trailed daintily over his thick hide, taking in the color of it and memorizing the placement of each and every little marking, scars and all. She came to the cluster of spines that ran a line down his chest and paused to tease one, noting the same texture as his hair. Stiff and firm—living, unlike hers. On one side of them she saw was a series of four, yellow-green lines that matched the placement of her fingers. Healing rather nicely.

A long breath parted her lips, and not a moment after, he began to purr.

Solita looked up, chin rested on his chest, and met the amber glow of his eyes. His mandibles made the shape of what she guessed to be a soft smile, and he placed one of his claws lightly against her cheek. Getting a good look at each other.

She recalled the night before. Wondering aloud, she asked, “Why is it you go to such lengths for me? Why do I matter so much to you?”

Thorn cocked his head and trilled softly, mandibles twitching. Wasn’t it obvious?

He placed one strong hand on her shoulder and shook it lightly, careful not to jostle her. It was the most comradic display he could give, and he hoped it would at least give her a clue as to how much she meant to him.

But in the bizarre workings of a human mind, it had almost the opposite effect. (Solita didn’t even know what answer she had expected to get, but it wasn’t that.)

“Because we helped each other? Because I saved you?” she asked, brow creasing slowly.

Thorn nodded slowly, clicking his confirmation. But there was so much more to it than that. So much more that he wanted to say. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, to let her think that she was nothing more than a comrade in his eyes. A mere ally and nothing more; someone that had helped him, and thus he owed a debt to.

Solita’s eyes tempered down and she averted her gaze.

“I see.” And then added as if on a separate note, “So that makes us friends, then.”

He flinched like he’d physically been hit. Something just didn’t sound right about that word. _Friends,_ Thorn repeated the word in his mind. For some inexplicable reason, he truly detested that word.

Solita managed to right herself, slipped away, and sat at the edge. Though she wasn’t looking at him, there was a look in her eyes that was painful for him to see. Passive, detached, as if she had separated herself from the world—divided between want and reality.

Paya, no. She had gotten the wrong idea.

“I should check on Royce and Isabelle,” she said. Her words came shallow, hollow and empty, as if she weren’t even living inside. “They’re probably awake by now.”

As she moved to get up, only one thought registered in Thorn’s mind. _Those damn oomans can wait._

Too quickly, before Solita could react, Thorn threw his arms out and snatched her by the waist, hauling her back and flush against his chest. Rumbling heavily with a loud chorus of purrs in hopes to keep her somewhat pacified and so he might somehow explain.

That was when the struggle started.

Startled and enraged by the attack, Solita thrashed and writhed and let loose a wailing on him in an attempt to get free. Inadvertently pulling at her stitches and aggravating them, she ignored the meager pain and punched at his arms and threw elbows, shouting profanities. At one point, she jabbed up high and connected with his lower jaw, cutting her knuckles on one of his tusks and earned a startled grunt. Solita cussed up a tempest to put sailors to shame: cursing him, his gods, his sires, and everyone and everything that had led to his creation. Desperate to wriggle free and escape him.

After all, she was only a comrade to him. Nothing more. Why should she bother getting herself mixed up in something that would never work? Something that, as a yautja, he couldn’t possibly understand?

Despite everything she did—every punch and slap, each elbow thrown, and through all the insults against his clan and sires—Thorn did his best to hold her steady and never stopped purring. Ignoring every curse and enraged demand for her release until, eventually, with his persistence, purring, and greater stamina, her resistance began to slow. Panting and winded, exhausted from the sudden upheaval, Solita clawed weakly at his wrists and forearms, muttering halfhearted and incoherent curses with no real threat or meaning.

He did something unexpected. Thorn lowered his head and encircled her entire shoulder in his sharp, dagger-like tusks and teeth, and every thought of protest vanished from her mind.

Her body shot rigid, breath caught completely, little trembles racking her frame. Fearing his bite, the pain, the blood. That he would rip her throat out now and be done with it. She would never bother him again. And with her gone, he would be free to make trophies of Isabelle and Royce. To claim the prizes he’d been so cruelly robbed of on the game planet.

The perfect opportunity. What hunter wouldn’t take it?

But his purrs returned, louder and deeper still, and with her body flush against his own, it ran a quake down the full length of her spine and the entire world was rendered into a fog of wavering lines and indistinct swirls of color.

Everything disappeared.

Perhaps she would never fully understand it, this peculiar affect he had on her. This strange, profound skill that, with only a few simple acts, could leave her as she was: helpless, mindless, powerless, and at his mercy entirely.

Now, there was no escape. Not from him. Not from anything.

His arms that shielded her from the harshness of reality at the same time opened her to a world where she was as much prey as she was the predator. A place where the complexity of life ended and a simple existence took up its wake. An existence where there was nothing but the essence of life itself. A world that is simple, beautiful, exotic, and governed solely by the most basic of all principles. A place where the savagery of nature is all that is civil.

Life at its most basic, its most essential and strange. The most feared and coveted existence. Carnal. Primal. An escape from all the fears and deceit.

This world he offered—the world of the hunt—she felt it consuming her: body and soul.

Her body trembled at its core. Shudders, hot and cold, racked her system, and hands snaked slowly along his forearms, clasping his wrists. Fingers strong with a familiar need. Mind quavering, she felt his tusks graze her rampant pulse, throbbing achingly. Growls mingled with the purrs, and her breath left her slow and shaky.

Her jaw clenched, and Solita no longer knew what was real. She did not recognize reality. It was a trivial thing. Unnecessary. Unimportant. A mere concept with no real substance.

This world faded slowly, and the other took hold.

She turned her head to him, eyes closed, overtaken.

Mandibles tangled in her hair, and quietly, beside her ear, he purred to her, _“Sssor’ee-tuuh.”_

Something clicked inside her mind, and in that moment, she realized that she didn’t care about anything. It didn’t matter to her that Thorn was a yautja, that she was a human, and because of that fact they shouldn’t be together. There were worlds between them. They were just too different. And she just didn’t care. Because she knew one thing: she had him now, and she was never going to let him go.

Slowly, her hand wound around to the back of his neck, and she turned herself until they were face-to-face.

Sanity skirting away slowly, she could think of only one thing to say. “Tell me your real name, Thorn,” she said quietly, barely audible over the rumble in his chest. “Tell it to me, so I know what to call you. . . .”

Thorn had to remind himself to breathe. Tusks scraping lightly around her jaw, locking her in place. Claws entwined with locks of her hair, pulling her ever closer.

His purrs quieted just enough to speak, and softly, he told her, _“Y’varaj.”_

As if by instinct, Solita etched that name deep into her memory. It robbed her of her thoughts and echoed through time, as if the whole universe stood still for that one instant.

“Y’varaj,” she repeated under her breath.

Her fingers traced the coil around his neck, toying with a rogue quill. His hot breath wafted against her face, sending a chill through her.

She turned fully around, straddling his broad thighs. Her hands clasped behind him tightly and his claws snaked under her buttocks and lifted her higher. She felt her mind go numb, able to focus on only one single point. And she held to that anchor as a lifeline, letting it fill her mind. As a moth is taken by the flame.

“Y’varaj. . . .”

Mind abandoned, she pressed her lips into the jagged, lower row of his teeth. His arms tightened until there was absolutely no room between them, stealing her breath, and her arms bound into a strangle around him just the same.

It was difficult to explain the sensations coursing through her body. Each pulse like a burst of fire, spreading the blaze and igniting an inferno within. A passion like molten lead in her veins. Skin feverish, sensitive to every little touch. Rousing the senses.

And his taste. . . .

God, the way he tasted. . . . She could scarcely find the means of describing it. Distinctively male with a certain tang. A bite that let it stand out against everything else. Characteristic and unique. Like the copper tinge in blood. Exactly as he smelled.

Solita clawed at him ardently, and soon her shirt was ripped off over her head and she found herself on her back, his heavy frame weighing down on her, suffocating. Loving every second of it. Every rumble, every growl. The huffs and moans she gave in turn, driving each other mad.

Talons grazed across her flesh, leaving long white lines that stung and rose into welts. She arched her back, fumbling with her belt, and then kicked her jeans off the side—one leg snagged on her ankle and then fell away with the brief clang and jangle of the buckle on the hard metal floor.

Flesh against hot flesh, she latched her legs awkwardly around his bulky waist and attacked one of his mandibles in her teeth. Clamping down on the lone, razor-sharp tusk and teased it with her tongue, drawing a heated, half-crazed hiss from him. Snapping his jaws at her, unable to reach. Inciting the act even more.

Thorn found it both erotic and bizarre, this peculiar obsession with his mouth. It was probably one of the strangest things she could do with him. For a yautja, the maw was one of the things generally avoided in mating, but her tender, fleshy lips were nothing like the knives carried by the females of his race. Soft, hot, and moist, the mere touch of them made his hide tingle like an electrical current. He welcomed the change eagerly, restlessly.

And, Paya, the sounds she made. Soft and sweet, yet feral and excited. Like a caged animal raging for escape. Craving freedom and willing to do whatever it took to win it back.

Her small body pressed against his great one, clasping his shoulders and arms, strong in her passion.

Thorn could honestly say he had almost no idea what he was doing. Sure, he was no stranger to mating. He had fathered many pups back on the clan ship, but given the circumstances he didn’t think that experience counted for much.

This was _not_ what he was accustomed to. At all. For his race, it was the females who held the dominance in mating—and not just because of their obvious physical superiority. Ultimately, it came down to the fact that they were the ones who cared for the young. They carried, gave birth, and raised the pups with no aid from the father; therefore, it was their natural right to demand what they wanted from any male they chose. Really, it was considered an honor to bed a female.

But Solita was no yautja.

She was so much smaller than him; he couldn’t make a mistake and risk hurting her. This was already going to be tricky enough without taking the size difference into account. And quite frankly he had no knowledge whatsoever of human mating rights and rituals. He had no idea what she expected of him other than the obvious.

He had no other option, so he left it to chance and took the initiative.

Rumbling with a deep thunder of purrs, Thorn grazed his claws along her belly and placed his paw over one of the glands on her chest, watching as her eyes rolled back and she bit her lip, releasing a high pitch keen that was like music to his ears. His other hand moved down and wrapped around her rear, mandibles splayed with satisfaction as she made the sound again, but this time she dragged her nails down his shoulders, earning a hiss.

That did it.

Growls overtook his purrs, and Thorn virtually shredded her flimsy cloth underwear in his attempt to get it off. Solita pulled her war-torn sports bra off over her head at the same time, and a hot shiver raced down her spine. Vaguely, she recalled feeling overly bare. Like it was more than just her body, but that her soul and every fiber of her being were left open for him to see—raw, vulnerable, exposed.

Her teeth gnashed together, trapped in a flurry of emotions, feelings that were impossible to make out in the delirium of the moment. There was passion and desire, unbridled lust burning sweet and devilish like the flames of Hades.

She snatched hold of the waistband of his loincloth and pulled it, emitting a growl of her own, wanting it off him badly. Thorn’s entire body tensed. He knew the command without having to hear the words, and he undid the latch that secured the metal plating and removed what remained, heeding her instruction thoughtlessly.

Something foreign pulled Solita’s mind from the recesses of madness, now. But the world still felt far away, like it was not entirely there. Merely a shadow of itself. A half-image.

His claws trailing across her hot flesh, bringing her more and more back into the light of the moment.

The weight of his body pressing down on her. Smothering and delicious. Assuring and all-encompassing.

Sharp tusks grazing her face, her neck, and along both shoulders. Carefully nipping the flesh with his razor-sharp teeth, leaving it red and sore, moistened by sweat and saliva. The taste of her was intoxicating, more than the most potent drink.

Rumbling with a perpetual bass of torturous purrs and rough growls, prickling along her skin and raising it into goose bumps. The tension of the flesh seemed to fascinate him as he ran both hands along every inch of her body, exploring and familiarizing himself with her. Taking extra time to examine her breasts until she was writhing beneath him, desperate with need. But he saw fit only to torture her more, amused at every little sound and frantic motion.

 _Damn you,_ she thought, or at least tried to think. Her entire body ached with newly awakened desire, begging him to take her, claim her, make her scream and think of nothing else. And he had the gall to torture her like this instead. Did he have any idea what he was doing to her?

Solita bit her lip until it went numb from the abuse, and she opened her eyes to meet his gaze. Golden-yellow eyes glowed and his mandibles splayed, rumbling in satisfaction.

_Oh, fuck your mother!_

Cheeky bastard knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

She was going to go mad at this rate. She could feel it. Wet and slick with arousal, the ardor of it filled the air and ghosted its way into his senses like a savory phantom, taking root in his mind and planting the seed of oblivion.

Thorn breathed it in deep, and his body responded to it immediately. His organ hardened uncomfortably quick, and a deep, possessive growl ripped through his chest and out his maw. Mandibles wound around her thin, pale neck, and his thin, pink forked tongue came out and swept along the entire length of her throat—from her collar bone, over her necklace, across her racing pulse, and up to tease just below her chin—tasting the salt of sweat and flesh and the so-sweet aroma of her female musk in the air, thick like fog. Her throat worked down a hard swallow.

He was trapped, fighting a losing battle against pure, carnal desire and his waning self-control.

And Solita was much the same.

Her eyes fluttered with every light ministration and finally closed as his tongue retreated. One thigh hitched on his waist and the opposite heel locked around the back of his knee, threatening to make him buckle. Her skin was hot and feverish, and she felt her sex pulsing in time with her frantic heart, desperate for relief.

“Goddammit,” she husked gruffly, and another hot shudder raced down her spine. “ _Please,_ Y’varaj, I need you . . . !”

Her words rang like sheer bliss in his ears, and Thorn needed no further encouragement. Just with the way she said his name, absolutely perfect, it sent a feeling of warm water down his spine.

He positioned himself above her and moved carefully forward, guiding his body to hers. Solita’s breath caught as she felt him, and her eyes shut again, bringing her mind from the darkness just enough for her to form coherent thought, and she knew this was not going to be pleasant.

Her hands clenched brutally when he entered her, making a half-choked groan as her jaw clamped shut and her nails dug deep, crescent cuts into his hide.

Solita was no novice when it came to sex. She had been a teenager once—hormonal and sexually insane—and being in the military had not only exposed her to a lot of male testosterone but also gave her more confidence and removed a great deal of the modesty factor. She was well versed in the intimacies between men and women and was not squeamish about it in any way, but in her experience she could honestly say that she had never come across anything quite like Thorn.

It was one hell of a tight fit to say the least. The pain was burning and intense, and she thought she would be ripped open at some point. Her body trying desperately to cope with his size, barely fitting half of his considerable length until she could physically take no more.

It took a moment, but the burning discomfort gradually died to a dull sting and she could think clearly again. Surprised when she realized that Thorn had not yet moved. He waited above her tensely, arms planted in the bed furs, claws digging in and shredding corners of the pelts, straining under a torrent of electrical ecstasy with his mandibles clenched, working hard to keep composed.

 _Paya,_ he groaned as soon as he could form coherent thoughts again. She was tight. So unbearably tight. Thorn feared for a moment that he might lose it as her body ensnared him like this—so soft and tight and lusciously hot. . . . It took every ounce of concentration and self-control not to just say _pauk_ it and take her right then and there. Claim her like a yautja female and make her crave nothing but him.

 _No._ He had to be patient and wait for her command. He was an Honorable Warrior; he knew the value of restraint.

Solita got her breathing under control and relinquished her death grip on his shoulders gradually, caressing the tortured flesh in an apologetic manner. Resting her head back on the furs, she looked up and whispered his name.

Amber eyes snapped open, glowing like beams of liquid gold. Watching as his chest rose and fell in a slightly quick, uneven pattern. A light quake shuddering through his arms.

She took in the glow of his eyes and the feel of having him inside her like this. Feeling him in detail. Hot and incredibly thick, pulsing in time with his unsteady heartbeat. And when he shifted his weight ever so slightly with an experimental move forward, her jaw went abruptly slack and her neck snapped back, a soft moan parting her lips. Feeling the series of ridges and bulging, throbbing veins that human men did not have. The swelling of the head that added an exquisite kind of friction to the subtle move, starting her heartbeat back up and her passions along with it.

Her arms reached up and tightened around his neck, and he lowered his body to her.

 _“Move,”_ she growled beside his ear—heated and ready.

There was the command Thorn had been waiting for. Said in such a voice that it made his entire body ache, and he could not help but to obey.

He kept the pace slow at first for her sake, and for Solita the discomfort was very real. With a kind of pain that pushed and pulled at her already-sore body, threatening to make her suddenly reconsider this whole damn thing. But when the first waves of pleasure overshadowed the pain, it became abruptly clear to her that this experience was something she would not soon regret.

Within minutes, Solita was huffing and moaning, draping her arms around him as his body pushed her down carefully into the furs. Growls were soon to overwrite the purrs, and his entire hide trembled with the force of them—along with the huffs of his breath and the occasional groan of when her body tightened unconsciously.

One large, clawed hand held her by the hip, the other as support. Her passage slickened more as pleasure flooded through her system, easing his every careful thrust and she was gradually fitting a bit more of him with each push forward. Pleasure rushed him as he did so, easing in deeper as she gasped, her body clenching around him tight like a fist. His blood coursed with sheer, bloody rapture, tempting and teasing him with the sounds she made and her hands and legs scraping for purchase on his back. Daring his resolve with every high pitch cry, driving him to the brink of madness as she called his name out again and again in the sweetest, most erotic voice.

The tempo increased, and Thorn bucked his body forward with an ecstatic hiss. Solita snapped her head back, shoulders arching, and he came back to her in a quick, excellent rhythm. Her grip tightened and pulled him closer until their bodies were flush, the heat of contact making a thin sheen of sweat form and their skin glistened in the soft white light.

And Solita went wild beneath him. Arching her back and moaning, pinned under his heavy weight. Legs circled his bulky waist, toes curled. Writhing under pulsing waves of ecstasy, prompting a challenge in him and an overpowering urge to tame those wild acts.

Thorn huffed and growled deeply, every nerve coursing like a livewire, igniting sensations that were entirely new to him. The soft, unbearable clench of her body surrounding him, slick, moist, and hot to his over stimulated flesh. Gliding in and out of her smoothly, wetly, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh ringing through his ears. Watching with glowing eyes as she pitched under high tides of euphoria, Thorn grabbed her waist and one shoulder and held her down, growling as her teeth gnashed and whined softly, trying to get free.

His body rocked and her hips bucked violently, arching her back and earning a grunt and a deep growl from him, caught by the unexpected fit. She panted heavily and clasped his back, dragging her nails across his shoulders, leaving long, florescent green streaks. Thorn hissed at the abuse, but the pain was nothing, serving only to add to his high.

Solita felt his talons against her flesh, grazing the small of her back, fraying the edge of her bandages. Bucking again and moving in time with his thrusts, making incoherent sounds as she lost her mind somewhere in the midst of it all.

Her hips snapped up, and she bit into his chest in an effort to stifle her cries. Her entire body tensed and convulsed in preemptive, climatic shudders.

Thorn immediately lost track of all that was going on.

Bliss and insanity melded together. They existed as one in his mind, fusing into a dense fog that left his world shrouded in haze.

Pleasure shot through his system, baiting a rough groan that made his throat hurt. He felt her breath hot and moist against his face, tracing her jaw line with his tusks. The scent of her musk mingled with his, and soon it was all he breathed. Thrilling and suffocating all at once.

Solita felt her stomach tighten with each passing second. Her face flushed red, hair matted and sticky with sweat, flesh unbearably hot. Instinctively, she knew what was coming.

Legs tightened and trembled, curling, forcing his body closer. Meeting him in deeper strokes. Nails dug deep, almost piercing his thick hide, wounding him. Pure ecstasy racked through her system, and she could not fend off the growl as his claws dragged deftly over her backside and sore waist. Thorn answered her immediately with a growl of his own, his body vibrating with the sound of it, rocking her into the bed. His great body gleamed in a coat of sweat from the heat and exertion.

Solita felt her peak building higher, faster, harder. Jaw clenched, head snapped back.

It all came down on her at once. . . .

Her back arched high and threw her head back, flushing with red-hot blood. Clenching around him hard, she came almost painfully. Crying out shrilly, ears rang and lights flashed behind her eyes. Arms clasped around him, face buried in the crook of his neck, hands grabbed hold of him in heated desperation, fisting roughly into the one part of him that she really shouldn’t have grabbed: his hair.

His answering roar rocked her world.

Claws clenched hard and dug into her waist, drawing blood. Consumed in ecstasy, there was no pain.

Solita convulsed again, squeezing and pulling those dense, black strands, and with a garbled roar—like a dying beast—he came hard inside her. Impaling her deep and far too roughly, setting off a whole new climax.

Had Thorn known what her pleasure would mean for his body, he might have entered this dance with greater caution. Because she clenched and spasmed around him, tightening and drawing him deeper in ways he never dreamed possible. His entire body surged and, like a depraved Young Blood all over again, flooded her womb ungraciously with everything he had. Thorn was suddenly distraught when he realized it, too. Her belly swelled slightly to compensate, and thick fluid rushed back down his shaft, unable to keep it all inside.

Sated, sweaty, and exhausted, Solita’s mind fell on standby for an uncounted number of seconds. Vaguely, she noted little things: the air cold against her flesh, her limbs twitching and trembling from the aftershocks of climax. The twinge of old injuries opened and new ones formed, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

A low groan reached her ears as she let go of him, and Thorn’s arms finally gave out. He collapsed on top of her, panting with his face in the furs, out of breath. She could hear and feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest, perfectly content with his considerable weight on top of her, and neither of them moved for a while. Waiting to catch their breath and compose themselves.

Through the foggy remnants of her high, Solita was the first to find herself. And although her limbs felt the consistency of jello, she reached up and draped her arms bonelessly around his back, pressing her forehead weakly into his shoulder, grinning.

“Friends with benefits, then. . . .” she slurred in a light murmur.

Though Solita might not have known it, her words lifted the weight of the world from Thorn’s shoulders. His body quaked lightly with rough laughter, and, delicately, he scooped her up in one arm and she was lying on his chest a moment later, neither willing to lose that amazing connection just yet. The low drone of his lungs rumbled just beneath her ear and her hands. He gazed down at her and inclined his head in a tired nod, eyes still glowing.

Solita smiled like a fool herself and rested her cheek on him, tracing four little scratch marks that lightly marred his hide. “Hmmm, good,” she muttered and closed her eyes, missing it when his mandibles spread into the biggest damn grin.

She listened as his purrs returned immediately, uneven at first, but quickly picked up into a steady hum just below her ear. One arm tightened around her waist and hauled her up to him, stroking her back tenderly, and he wove his mandibles through her hair.

They both still smelled of sweat and the musky ardor of mating. A scent that, oddly enough, was not that far from the one produced during and in the aftermath of battle. When the heart pounded and adrenaline raced for different reasons; when the blood ignited in flames and cast a glare that obscured the world in dark shadow, leaving only oneself and the target of their attention. A struggle among foes; a tussle of passion between lovers.

Funny how things that are so different can share something so intense. Like us, she thought to herself and smiled softly.

Solita grazed her thumb over his hide, savoring his scent and toying with the line of quills that ran down his chest. Breathing deep, she flinched to a familiar pang in her side, but rather than let it spoil the moment, a smile spread across her lips.

She looked up at him and muttered, “I think I tore my stitches again.”

Thorn cocked his brow at the declaration and shifted just enough to get a look at the bandaging. And, sure enough, there was indeed a small red stain forming in the center. Instead of feeling annoyed, however, he chirred lightly, sharing her simple delight in this, and Solita giggled as he rolled her over to take care of the inconvenience.

While he did, she made a point of interest by nipping his shoulders and his tusks, taunting him with little growls that he returned tenfold. Taking one of his claws and slowly dragging it all the way up her abdomen and sawing leisurely through the bindings. It was not long before their dance began anew, shattering the silence of the room with a ruckus of purrs and growls and pants and moans.

And this time it was Solita’s turn to wonder:

If she had all of this here with Thorn—this glorious freedom; this unbridled passion; this alternative to a cruel, unfeeling world that she had once called her home—was Earth really worth returning to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oomans_ – humans (slang)  
>  Y’varaj – fang


	7. Equals at Last

The night passed slowly. There was no real sleep. Only a dim form of half-conscious where Solita waited at the brink of consciousness and rest. She thought of nothing. She dreamed of nothing.

Large, warm arms secured around her middle, a breathing chest at her back. Never had she been so content to lie next to a naked body.

But when she finally awoke, she did so alone.

“Thorn?” Solita called out softly, trying to make heads or tails of where the hunter could have possibly gone.

Pushing up onto her arms, she groaned immediately with the surprising amount of effort it took and succeeded only in sliding right back down onto her belly, unable to make the limbs work. Everything felt the consistency of jello.

That was when she noticed the smell.

Some magnificent, ethereal aroma (that she was amazed not to have noticed in her sleep) wafting through the air and wet her palate something fierce. Her empty gut gave a remorseless churn, and she panned her head over to a side table where a tray sat there innocently. She didn’t really know how to describe what it had on it at first, then she likened it to something along the lines of red mashed potatoes with chunks of something red-brown and meaty and something green.

Abruptly realizing she hadn’t eaten in the better part of four days, her gullet wrenched in painstaking vengeance to being ignored for so long.

Jello-limbed or not, Solita hadn’t moved that fast since the game planet.

Snatching the tray, nearly spilling its contents, she hauled it into her lap and downed the entire plate. Too quickly to even taste it, not bothering to check for utensils or, for that matter, question exactly what the hell she was eating, she devoured it. All Solita knew was that she was ravenous, and her stomach demanded immediate satisfaction.

Sadly, the plate was empty long before she wanted it to be, but she was still hungry enough to resort to swabbing it on her fingers and licking them clean. The aftertaste wasn’t half bad. Hell, it tasted fucking awesome: distinctly meaty, almost like beef but with a softer texture, the occasional leafy green thrown in for something more of a balanced nutrition. Only vaguely did she note that she had probably just consumed part of an alien creature, a slightly disturbing notion but not enough to deter a contented belch and a long chug from a deep, metallic bowl of water. Clean, clear, delicious water.

Setting the empty dishes aside, her senses came back to her. She regretted eating so much so quickly now, knowing she’d get the stomachache of a lifetime in about an hour or so. Oh, well. She’d tackle that problem when it came to her. Right now, she had a different mission to concentrate on.

Where was her hunter?

Looking around, she took in details from the room for the first time. Ornate carvings and symbols were etched in bas relief along the walls, black gleamed a faint shade of slate blue. Dim white lights like florescent tubes were intervalled within the ceiling plates, illuminating the vast array of brown, red, black, and gray pelts that made up the enormous bed and the smooth, dark and dusty gray metal of the floor. Humming and rumbling softly under her feet, the low thrum of the engines made for an excellent white noise.

Carefully, Solita shuffled to her feet, steadying her uneasy legs on the cot frame, and inched along, keeping within arms-reach of anything steadier than her until she was confident she wasn’t going to fall over. Gathering up her clothes (or what was left of them, at least) in a bundle in her arms, she pinched the shredded, indistinguishable remains of her underwear between her fingers and grimaced.

Great, she grumbled mentally and made a note not to let Thorn undress her ever again. She hated going commando. The thought brought last night to mind, however, and sent a hot chill racing down her spine. Her libido said hello.

A noise alerted her to an automatic door towards the back of the room. A shuffling sound. A quiet splash. She tentatively approached the door, unsure of what to expect. Sensors must have picked up on her movement, because the door whisked open as soon as she was close. The lighting was phenomenally dim, leaving the room with a dark gray tinge that was almost impossible to see through. While she didn’t really recognize any shapes she saw, fear of it closing had her hurry inside before she could think otherwise.

Inside was warm—more than the regular atmosphere, and moist. Humid, like a jungle or a sauna.

A deep rumble sounded as she looked around waiting for her eyes to adjust, and she felt it reverberating through the air and into her chest. Distinct and familiar, definitely not the ship.

“Thorn?” she called out quietly, more tentative than was probably necessary.

The rumble stopped for an instant. Soft splashes, like rippling water, and the sound kicked back up several notches.

_“Sssssor’ee-tuuh.”_

She followed slowly deeper into the room. Her eyes changed to the bad lighting after a moment and picked out a couple familiar shapes: a bench off to one side too high for a human, a row of shelves stretching across the far wall, unable to decipher what was on them, and smooth, square tiles for flooring. The rest she couldn’t name. It was only when her foot landed in a puddle of warm water that she realized what the room was probably for. While yautja bathing habits made sense, such a mundane task didn’t quite fit the bill for the hunters in her mind. She would never have thought about it without seeing it for herself.

A pair of yellow eyes illuminated in the dark, sending a chill of instinctual fright down her spine, but as soon as it came it melted into a thrill like warm water pouring down her spine, and she approached them until the ground dropped off into the edge of a wide, dark pool. Wisps of steam rose from the surface like a cloud of ominous spirits, shrouding the world in a haunting aura, and the ripples grew louder as the eyes came closer.

He was just near enough to make out his shape in the dark, just enough light for his amber orbs to catch and gleam—like high beams striking some wild, unknown animal in the dark of night: piercing, haunting, and so enticingly dangerous.

Claws stretched out and grazed along her ankles. Startled, she moved the foot back and suddenly realized her knees were shaking, grasping her clothes a little too tightly. It was a moment before he tried again, gauging her response and keeping the purrs low and constant. His claws wound around her heel and glanced up along her calf, encompassing the entire muscle in his palm.

The deep, resounding thrum of purrs traveled up her thigh into the pit of her stomach, sending a restless shudder through her system.

“Th-Thorn. . . .”

_“Ssssor’ee-tuh.”_

She watched, perplexed, as his claws circled around the back of her knee and brought her leg forward, caressing it with his mandibles. Grazing the razor sharp tusks along her sensitive flesh, he left the poor woman floundering.

“W-we really need to stop . . . stop meeting like this,” she stuttered, trying to keep her thoughts in order. He was making it so difficult.

Thorn paused for a second to gaze up, looking a little confused. It gave her a momentary reprieve, which she was grateful for.

“We always seem to . . . to meet like this when I’m ha-half conscious. . . . If I didn’t know better . . . I’d think you were taking advantage.”

He didn't seem to understand at first, but as soon as he did he let go of her leg and started to back away, not wanting her to get the wrong impression. But Solita surprised him by fumbling after his wrist before it could stray too far, astounding herself that she could catch it in the dark.

“Wait.” There was a sudden urgency in her tone, as if fearful of his leaving. “Don’t . . . don’t go. I was kidding.”

His purrs returned, hearing the change in her, and wound his enormous hands carefully around the back of her thighs to tentatively coax her forward. She hesitated at first, and then melted as her clothes dropped from listless arms, deftly aware of when the hunter caught them and moved them somewhere out of sight. Luring her in another careful step, her toes touched the surface of the water. Warm and inviting, sending a current of relaxation up her leg.

 _“Ssor’ee-tuh. Kh-um,”_ he husked roughly on the attempt at English, but gratefully she understood. He sliced the bandages off her middle; the water would ruin them anyway.

A moment later, Solita was chest deep in dark water, still not touching the bottom, and let out a long, delighted sigh as her head and shoulders reclined against the edge, arms up on either side. A gruff, husky chortle sounded from in front of her and sent quiet ripples through the water, washing against her and sloshing lightly over the low bank. But for the life of her, Solita just didn’t care. Her entire body melted, every last muscle rendered limp and useless as a puddle of gooey syrup.

And she just didn’t care.

“Ahhhhh. . . .” A complacent grin curved along blissful parted lips. “This . . . is . . . _amazing_. . . .”

Thorn’s tusks arced into a broader smile while she settled in against the side, motionless and letting out slow, deep breaths. He imagined she wouldn’t bat an eye at the opportunity to fall asleep here, and seeing her so obviously relaxed made a warm, fluttering sensation rise up in the pit of his stomach. Giving her a well-deserved opportunity to wind down, he went back to scrubbing his hide and let her drift into her own world of comfort.

Solita just lounged there, bleary eyed and weary and completely content. Listening to the sound of rippling water, one eye remained cracked while her golden-eyed leviathan cleaned himself. To see a hunter doing something as mundane and ordinary as bathing seemed a little too surreal in her mind. It reminded her that no matter how incredible the existence of the hunters was, they were still physical, mortal beings. Thorn still had to eat and breathe, he slept when he was tired and got wounded on hunts, and thus he got sweaty when he worked and dirty when rolling in the mud. She vaguely wondered how ancient cultures had considered his kind like gods, but given that none of them had probably ever been welcomed into a hunter's life before, she figured they must have seemed more like perpetual gods of war rather than living creatures that also had concerns for hygiene.

 _And to think I used to think he was frightening,_ Solita thought, smiling faintly at the notion. It seemed so odd, now. The knowledge that only a few days ago she’d been hunted by members of his kind—knowing that she should have died but managed to survive despite impossible odds—felt more like a dream than an event that marked her (body and soul) as a hunter—a survivor.

Solita let out her breath and closed her eyes again, sinking slowly until only her face rested above the surface. Minding closely to the muffled drone of the ship through the water, low and constant like the swathed, whirring hum of millions of bees. Unwavering and unchanging. Soothing and ever-present, like the sweet, steady purr that emitted from the beast so near to her.

Solita didn’t even notice she nodded off until a force was shaking her arm, waking hazily to amber eyes hovering over her head, a hundred black tendrils like a curtain of wiry dreads. Tusks clacked and head cocked in a flurry of chirring clicks, and all the suds were gone from his body. Either curious or concerned; she wasn’t sure which.

Her face flushed with warmth, embarrassed to have been caught dozing, and escaped him beneath the waves. There was a second when the hot water felt wonderful washing over her face and through her hair, then her feet found the wall and kicked off, dodged around his legs which jerked in surprise, and felt along the smooth, slippery bottom—unknowing that Thorn watched the trail of bubbles that revealed her escape, and it gave him an idea—to find her way through the dark to the other side.

Solita burst through the surface with a gasp of air then pulled her arms up onto the side; only now was she aware of the pleasant sensation of clean. The complete absence of dirt and grime and sweat and dried blood built up from combat (from survival) washed away into the warm water and left her refreshed and renewed, the grit gone from her arms and rinsed clean from her hair. The smell of the water wasn’t quite right, though. The consistency was too thick, like there was some kind of cleanser mixed in. Not that it really mattered.

Blissful, she rested her chin on her arms, but a sudden splash turned her head and empty space and a large rippling circle was all that greeted her. Now came the realization that Thorn was up to no good, and an instinctual fright rose up in the most primal recesses of her mind: fear of the encroaching predator. Heart began to pound, mind began to race, the same as being alone in the room with a hungry tiger, a shark circling in the depths. Pushing up against the edge, back as flat as it could get, her arms scrambled to haul herself up and out of striking range. 

Too slow.

A great wall of water reared up inches from Solita’s face, eliciting a shriek of surprise and panic, and two large, clawed hands grabbed hold of her waist and lifted her up out of the water, depositing the startled human on the bank with an audible _“oof!”_

Thorn erupted with laughter as she glowered at the hunter. Shoulders bouncing and mandibles splayed with mirth, dark water dripped off every inch of pure, unadulterated male. Ass, Solita felt like saying but gave him a splash instead, irked a bit when he guarded from it with an even greater look of amusement. But Solita kept the snide comments to herself and took to merely watching him.

In the low, dusky lighting of the bathing chamber, the gray tinge of this world seemed to consume everything but the glory of the sight before her. The great body of the hunter, gleaming faintly with a sheen of warm water, steam and mist rising from broad shoulders and a hard chest. Muscles contrasted by shadow, close enough that she imagined she could hear the blood pumping in his veins. A simple reach of the hand and she would be touching him again. Exactly as last night.

_God, last night._

The mere memory sent a scalding shudder down her spine. Echoes of moans and growls and hisses and groans coursed through her mind. Ecstasy flaring like molten magma. The sting of claws and sharp teeth, powerful hands grappling with unruly hips.

Solita crushed her legs together, but the defiant thoughts remained present in the forefront of her mind, barely finding an adequate distraction in his regard of her. A curious tilt of his head that made the tendrils of his hair fall to one side, hands set beside her thighs, clicking that sound only the yautjas could make. Proximity and the heat radiating from his huge, incredible mass had a peculiar effect of her mind, body, and self-control. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to be aware of what that discomfort was doing. Fortunately.

Then, like turning the page in a book, an intense expression came across his face. Intent with thought and consideration, the gears began to turn and turn until his tusks clacked together and he let out an almost frustrated growl of sorts about something.

“Thorn?” she asked. Her turn to be concerned. “What’s wrong?”

He lifted one hand up, half to her, almost hesitant. Trying to figure out the right way to do this so she would understand the first time. His expression hardened with determination and, tentatively, he set his big hand into Solita’s chest, centered below her neck.

 _“Sssor’ee-tuuh,”_ he hissed, always seeming to have trouble with the name. Then, he took the hand back and placed it on his own chest. _“Y’varaj.”_

She understood that much. “Our names. Solita. Y’varaj.”

He nodded once. At least she got that much. Now for the hard part.

Patting his chest again, he growled with difficulty, _“Th-oorrrn.”_

Solita cocked an eyebrow, her curiosity growing as to where this could possibly be headed.

Then, Thorn returned his hand to her bosom, the intensity in his golden gaze restored as if some great, important event was playing out in his mind. And after a moment, his chest puffed up and shoulders lifted, towering with pride and enough dignity and confidence to sink a ship. _“Dah’shay-ny,”_ he rumbled strongly, the sound traveling down his arm into the center of her being.

Solita regarded him curiously for a moment, trying to think if her mother had ever taught her a word like that before.

“You . . . want to call me that? Dah-shay-nee?” she asked, managing a rough pronunciation. He nodded, purring sonorously. “What does it mean?”

He paused a moment and his head nodded side to side, trying to think of how to explain it right. A thoughtful rumble, and then, _“M-di h’dlak.”_

She knew those words. “’No fear’?”

Again, his head swayed side to side, and a frown started to form—not as sure now that he heard it out loud. Close, but not quite the same effect.

Solita tried again. “Fearless?”

He nodded vigorously that time, bringing an immediate smile to her face.

She repeated it, “Fearless.” The word sounded almost intense, tigerish on her lips, metallic but smooth, like the taste of blood on a fresh kill or a hot blade slicing through a foe. Something she’d never gotten out of it before.

Thrilling, lethal, enticing.

Solita’s smile turned carnal, mischievous, bloodthirsty.

She droned, “I like it.”

Thorn’s tusks spread in a smile, purring and clicking and humming deeply with delight. His hand shook her shoulder lightly, enraptured as she reached up and returned the commaradic gesture. So, when both her arms reached up, he lowered obligingly and relished in the warmth of her slender grasp around his broad shoulders. One hand cupped the back of his neck, the rumble of his purr emitting through the air and tingling in every part of her body. Eyes shut, Solita met her brow with Thorn’s in a tender, amorous display, thinking about her new name and what it meant for her.

Solita had named Thorn purely on impulse, an afterthought as to not wanting to simply refer to him as “the-one- _not_ -trying-to-kill-me”. Something in her decided that if she had put words to calling Black Jaw by then she certainly owed it to her one and only ally to come up with something for him as well. Something honorable and respectful, something befitting of the one whose help would ultimately lead to her survival—who held her fate in his hands. She had chosen to call him Thorn. But Solita knew by her mother’s teachings that a hunter’s name told a lot about them, meant a great deal to them, and while she didn’t know the meaning of his birth name, she knew that to be called something as impressive as _Fearless_ was not to be balked at. He named her for a reason, and he meant the title he gave.

Somewhere in that moment, in the midst of his attention and mere presence—his hot breath puffing lightly on her face and strong, clawed hands cupping her hip and the small of her back—Solita was reminded of exactly why she did not fear him: there was a strength to him that could be gentle, huge fangs and tusks and sharp claws that held her and grazed her flesh with as much tenderness as ferocity; the sound of his purring was a deep thrum that shuddered through her mind and made every bone in her body vibrate, rendering her weak and frail, her limbs like gelatin; a strong heart pulsing in his chest, warm blood coursing in his veins, and lungs that breathed the simple rapture of life itself.

Thorn was not a demon—with green blood and eyes like obsidian. He was a hunter, a warrior. He knew honor and nobility just as well as he knew the merciless thrill of combat and the taste of blood in his mouth and the warmth of it on his hands.

He was every bit as alive as she was, and that was why she needed him—why she did not fear him. For no other reason than that he was alive, she knew, deep down, that she could not live without him.

Their breath mingled in the steamy air of the bathing chamber, tusks circling her jaw and cheekbones as her brow pressed closer, and she began to remember, to imagine. The rumble of his growl and the weight of his body made the surface of her skin prickle and tighten; a thick hide slick with exertion made her hands clasp behind his shoulders. So, when her scent wafted through his lungs and awakened the first gleams of that truly primal side of him, he opened his eyes and knew what she needed.

Her mind was slipping slowly into oblivion, and she had no desire to prevent it.

Purrs changed into a low, rumbling drone, and he put his claws around her hips and dragged her in close, reveling in how easily and how willing she was to fit her legs around his body. Her hands found the curve of his shoulders with a ferocity he was starting to recognize. Unbridled, now. Free from the burden of thought, letting the most basic of instincts run wild.

The Solita she knew faded somewhere into the gray, and left in its place was someone new. Someone with a face revealed only to those few that had invoked it. It was one Thorn had seen only once before. In the face of almost certain death, he watched as her brown eyes glazed over into black, and she surrendered herself to his world—the world of the hunt. Of the predator.

It was a primeval existence. A place where there was no equal like the creatures that carved out their lives with blood and sweat and the strength of their backs. A reality that, with her own two hands, she had made herself a part of.

Now, she was his equal.

Blunt claws dragged torturously across his flesh, further awaking that part of him, and she gave him a growl that made his ears ring and senses flare. Mandibles splayed for breath, hissing deep with welcome as her arms circled tight around his neck. Her lips curled mindlessly, pulling him forward, teeth gritting and snaking her hands along the warm brass coil guarding his neck.

She whispered his name low—as if purely to drive him mad—and met his brow with hers, mashing their faces together. His talons grazed her lower back, using only a little bit of strength to fuse their bodies as one while the other found its way underneath her hair. Intertwining in the tangled mess of locks, his thumb swept across her temple, mandibles latching around her chin with a trilling purr, and vaguely he wondered if he was dreaming.

Sanity was slowly abandoning him, and when one hitched leg brought their hips together he did lose control for a moment. Solita felt his claws drag across her body, stinging harshly and leaving long, upraised lines of red flesh. She gasped, bit into her bottom lip, and grasped behind his shoulders with force, drawing a gnarled hiss from him as layers of dense hide were drawn up beneath her nails.

An exhale parted Solita’s lips, releasing a breathy groan. A chill raced down her spine, raising the hair on her neck. Thorn’s claws kneaded tenderly, enticingly, between her shoulder blades and lower back, grazing the sensitive spine. All the while his eyes glowed with an amber sheen, vibrant and attentive, talons mingling with her stringy hair. A low, possessive growl rumbled through his chest; he felt his heartbeat quicken.

None of it made any sense. To either of them.

It was completely illogical. It shouldn’t be happening.

A human and a yautja. . . . There was just no way. 

His kind hunted hers for fun. Killed them for sport like they were game. She herself could testify to that truth: taken from her home, chased, captured, beaten, driven to the brink of insanity, and had come so close to being butchered by one of his kind. Like a cow to the slaughter.

And yet, after everything that had happened, despite all that a reasonable mind might think, she so willingly surrendering to him.

Why was he allowing it to happen?

And why could neither of them find the will to stop? 

After all, they were freakish to each other. Were they not?

Yautjas: a frightening race to say the least. Terrifying monstrosities; huge beasts made purely of brawn and raw power, with an intellect that made great men like monkeys. And they could scarcely be considered attractive. Formidable tusks set before needle-sharp fangs, frightful and grotesque. Claws to cleave flesh from bone. Sheer, massive size and a ferocious demeanor. What wasn’t there to fear?

And humans, they were such petty little things. Small and slight, no real claws or fangs to speak of let alone to find appealing. They saw no value in the hunt. The symbolic nature, the status, the well of pride felt in bringing home the greatest trophy. And their simple lack of honor, it was detestable. Humans, always so willing to make an oath and then, the instant things turned sour, tucked tail and ran, abandoning comrades to save their own skins.

To each other, Thorn and Solita were—in every way—alien.

He was everything she should fear.

She was everything he should despise.

And yet. . . .

Thorn was frightening, yes. Any right-minded person could agree. But he was more than fangs and claws, weapons and scars. He had saved her life, demanded nothing in return, and against all reason was still willing to go out of his way to take her and two others home. He was tender and fierce, crafty and noble, gentle and yet powerful.

Solita was strange. All humans were in a yautja’s eyes. And yet there was an exoticness to her that he could not describe; an allure that overwrote all his rationality. The way the scent of the game planet clung to her hair and clothing, never fading, reminding him so strongly of the hunt. Of their brush with certain death. The way her eyes grew wild in the face of the enemy. An appeal of the taboo, tempting and intriguing, that offered the greatest of challenges. And there was the matter that she had cared for him.

In his mind, Thorn felt something give. Like a rope coiled tightly in restraint of something terrible, weakened gradually over the time passed since leaving the game planet, it frayed ever so slowly. And, now, under the weight of passion and understanding, it finally surrendered.

So, when her lips found their way between his mandibles, he did not deny them. Tusks entwined with her hair and he did his best to return the kiss, lowering her down until she lost her grip on him. There was a splash of water as he hiked his body out of the pool and onto the embankment, kneeling between her splayed legs and covering her small form completely in his mass. All the world was rendered obsolete.

The tendrils of his hair fell around her like a black shroud, narrowing her focus onto a single point; drops of water trailed like hundreds of warm little ghosts down every inch of unguarded flesh, and his strong hands worshipped her supple curves before lifting her hips up to meet him. A low hiss, a gasping moan, and they were one. There was pain, but not as bad as the night before, and with that same calculated control he had utilized on their first time, Thorn moved his hips at a painstakingly slow rhythm, letting her feel in the greatest of detail precisely what was happening: slick, luscious friction and his stunning girth, heat pooling in her tense gut at the sheer depth he reached with every lazy stroke—her lips parted with the most piteous, wanton sound he’d ever heard, and it made his blood soar.

He took her slowly in the bathing chamber, reveling in her soft moans and the tight heat of her body, clenching around him tight like a fist, and he thrust in with heavy shuddering and delicious difficulty, sparking a stricken moan from beneath him. The way she writhed under his weight, panting and keening, her small hands strengthened by a medley of passion, lust, and desire, blunt claws raking down his back and across his shoulder blades. She moaned demands to go faster or take her harder, but he overlooked them for the sake of the moment, daring every custom he’d ever learned to take her to new heights of torture and ecstasy: removing her hands from their purchase on his scraped shoulders, he pinned them together and maintained total control as his one free hand clasped her hip possessively. Thorn growled long and low, and Solita’s chin snapped back, jaw slackened with a heavy gasp; the big male thrilled in her easy submission.

Hot air and steam clung to sweat-slick flesh, husky breaths wrought with groans and growls while his female pitched and writhed beneath him, watching with glowing eyes as her deeply tanned skin flushed with strange red blood. Pleasure pooling in his gut at the tight heat surrounding him, the hunter fell down to one elbow and enclosed one slender shoulder in his formidable tusks, tasting the salt of her flesh as he pulled back and thrust in to that one, pulsating spot inside. Solita cried out and bucked for both reasons, but his increased rhythm was its own delicious brand of torture. The burning need was barely close to being quenched, but Thorn nipped tender flesh and moved atop her in a steady motion, enough to make the human bite her lip and pull against his unyielding grasp, eliciting a sound that threatened his self-control with startling efficiency, etched at further as her legs crept up and pretzeled behind his color splotched back.

It was only when he heard his name being repeated on those soft, swollen pink lips of hers that his mind began to gray. _Y’varaj. . . . Hah-ah! Y’va—Y’varaj . . . ah, yes. . . ._

Hips bucked involuntarily, a hard-fought groan husking through his chest and clenched teeth and tusks. The sound she gave him combined with the way her body tightened to the point of near pain—rendering him nothing more than molten blood and taut member buried inside her—was almost enough to undo him right then and there, but he dragged himself back to sanity with four bloody claw marks cut into Solita’s backside. She would find them later, after cleaning up.

The resulting rhythm was anything but the even pace he had set and planned to keep, lurching forward roughly again and again. Furious growls ground through his body and into every fiber of her being, her moans ever louder and satisfying as her lips pulled back in a truly primal smile. Logical mind long since deteriorated, Solita latched her teeth onto one of his tusks and absolutely refused to let it go, wrists and body straining under his stringent grasp and heavy weight even as he hissed and clicked at her to be freed. Unaccustomed to being toyed with, especially in the throes of a rigorous mating, he nipped and bit at where he could reach and scraped his other three tusks where he could not, trying to coax himself free. (The new awkward bend of the mandible was far from comfortable.) Not until he at last bit down on her chin and nearly drew blood—far too over stimulated to think about the consequences such a bold act would earn him under normal conditions—did she finally release him.

The relief of freedom, however, was short-lived, because as soon as he pulled his head back and readjusted for a safer method of penetration, her legs tightened brutally and she arched mid-thrust, effectively rendering him breathless until her hips thrust up with impeccable timing, embedding him hilt-deep inside her. A tad too deep considering his size, pain flashed red behind Solita’s eyes, but didn’t last under the onslaught of ecstasy.

An assault of such caliber was enough to blank out his mind entirely for a second, and then the pleasure came flooding back with such intensity that he reared back and roared, cursing vilely just to keep it all together under the vicious clench of her maddeningly tight passage.

_“Pauk! C’jit, c’jit, c’jit. . . . Pauk-de ik’aset . . . !”_

Vivaciously aware he’d been stunned—and loving that she knew every profanity he’d just spewed—slack jaws and gleaming muscles and all, Solita’s body reacted before her pleasure-hazed brain could catch up. It took seconds to take full advantage, and she pulled her hands free and grabbed four fistfuls worth of wiry black tresses, delighting in his strangled howl and when his eyes rolled back into his head, hard member pulsing and pounding with full attention. She bit down mercilessly into the joint of his lower left mandible and pulled at the same time, tasting blood on her teeth.

 _“On your back,”_ she ordered—the epitome of all things feral, carnal, and untamed—and immediately knew she had him wrapped around her finger. Mechanically, he fell onto his back without a thought of protest, pulling her with him so as not to lose the sleek, succulent fire of their bond, and watched with glowing eyes as she sat atop him, wet hair clinging to sweat-soaked flesh in all the right ways. Her head fell back and jaw parted, relishing in the plain rearrangement and the unfamiliar knowledge of control, anchored to reality by the throbbing girth—of her mate; her alien lover—held inside her. _“Yessss,”_ she droned, breathless, taken by the revelation of exactly that.

Thorn repeated back to her, _“Ye-sssssss.”_ Hide trembling with the force of purrs and growls, husky and rough from adrenaline and fatigue, amber eyes shined like liquid gold in his head. Claws trailed up her bare thighs, blatantly admiring the view of her body and exactly where they were connected, and encompassed her waist in his strong, solid hands. _“Sei-i, naj Dah’shay-ny,”_ he rumbled, language barrier utterly forgotten.

The tone of his voice, deep and resounding like the percussion of a drum—intoxicating in sound alone—was enough to send a spark of white-hot passion through her veins, jumpstarting her heart and desires along with it.

Her pace was experimental at first, sliding up his shaft until only the head remained inside and then pushed steadily back down to the hilt, exhaling shakily, taking everything in and appreciating him for what he was in that moment: hers. And she wanted him to know that—needed him to _know_ just how much she had to have him—not just in his mind but in the very core of his existence that her heart could not beat, her lungs could not breathe, and she herself could not live without him.

So, when one big hand wrapped around Solita’s hip and kneaded tenderly, his warm palm set against her cheek, claws tangling in her hair, and wiped away the tears she hadn’t realized were falling, she gasped. Soothing purrs rumbled through the air, numbing her mind and putting the world back into a familiar haze, like he was afraid he’d done something to upset her. Solita took his hand, kissed it once, and placed it over her heart, letting him feel the quick, constant pace shielded by bone, muscle, and flesh and the basis of her life in her bosom. He smiled; the answering purrs and gentle caress let her know that he understood, and she came back to him with a new passion, hands sprawled over his powerful chest.

Panting and moaning filled the chamber again as Solita lost herself in rapture. Two bodies shone with sweat and the remnants of bathwater, contrasted against the ripple of every working muscle. Heaving breaths and shaking limbs, claws scraping flesh and nails leaving faint, florescent trails where wounds had almost finished healing. Pleasure convulsed, riding wave after scalding wave. She threw her head back as Thorn snarled and groaned, fighting not to interrupt her rhythm as his entire consciousness centered around tight friction and the occasional compulsive thrust up.

Then, struck by the goddess in his lap, Thorn reached up and pressed his thumb to her soft parted lips, all but indulged as Solita leaned into the touch with a desperate expression, jaw slack and breathing hard. She came forward a second later, chest against heaving chest, face hidden in the crook of his neck, and rode him mercilessly with their bodies flush together. Seizing her slender hips, he helped her along as his head hit the floor, numbed by a rough, uncontrollable growl of pleasure.

Hot, moist breath puffed against his shoulder, baiting him with scents and sounds and body heat until the pressure in his gut abruptly alerted him to just how close he actually was. Fists clenched and slammed onto the wet ground, head pushed back and tusks clacking and grinding as she pushed up to her elbows and rocked viciously atop him, shaking hard. Slim hands braced against his chest, slouched and moaning, she barely noticed him digging his claws into the ground as her own peak built up . . . and came down hard.

Her final rock and she came down with exceptional force, pushing Thorn deep into her, back bowed and her entire body stiffened. Head threw back, tossing her hair with what could very well have been a scream, but it was drowned out by the coupling roar of the hunter. That last slam, along with the shrill cry of bliss and constriction of her body, heaved Thorn over the edge and into the throes of a total white-out.

His hands shot up and crushed her hips down brutally, bucking and straining under her thighs, buried to the hilt as his essence poured out inside her, roaring with violent release. Convulsions from her body surrounded him, milking his flow lavishly until he had nothing left to give and then held him in a brutal clench.  
Solita gasped breathlessly, every overworked muscle twitching and spasming, stunned by the sheer strength of dual climax.

The second the convulsions stopped, echoing like a gong was struck inside their hot, heaving chests, Solita gasped and collapsed onto Thorn’s front. There she laid until her ears stopped ringing, winded lungs brought to calm, and the dim chamber fleshed slowly back into existence, making a tiny noise as Thorn released his death grip on her sore hips and reached up to circle around her back. She huffed once (intending it to be some non-distinct sound of happiness, but that wasn’t quite how it came out) and smiled bonelessly, nuzzling into his still rapid heartbeat as they cooled down together.

It was a few minutes before Solita could work up the proper nerve control to move her limbs, and she wound her arms lazily beneath his neck and helped prop his heavy head under her hands. Thorn was back to purring by that time, mandibles slack in a look of total, tired satisfaction. Not the least bit disturbed by his blatant ease, Solita was feeling more than a little fulfilled herself, and she sighed sweetly, also weary, able to feel the thick, slick fluids deep inside of her.

“Damn,” she muttered through half-lidded eyes and a smile, feeling his head lift a bit, “you really know how to show a girl a good time.”

Thorn’s smile grew into a smirk and purrs kicked up a notch, virtually swelling with male pride as he rubbed little circles into her lower back, and she laughed. A girl could get used to this.

\----------

“You _what_?” Isabelle gasped, eyes bugged to the size of dinner plates. Royce, on the other hand, just looked completely and utterly disgusted.

How had she gotten herself into this situation, again? Oh, yeah.

Solita and Thorn’s wash-up session was not without its moments of intensity: even after that first undeniable need was taken care of, they couldn’t seem to fathom the idea of keeping their hands to themselves with the aftershocks still hot in their veins. Afterward, when all was done and Solita’s skin and clothes were finally freed of the remaining gunk from the game planet, including getting her side re-bandaged, Thorn returned to the control room and Solita the back of the ship where Isabelle and Royce were dining on the same meal-substance she’d found upon waking. It was on her short trip through the halls, however, that an odd thought had struck her, but while she couldn’t remember word for word what it was, she recalled that it had something to do with the fact it didn’t seem right to leave the only two human beings in existence—that could sympathize with her ordeal from a few days prior—in the dark about what was going on.

Needless to say, _that_ conversation went down smashingly.

Isabelle had been speechless, at first, but Royce was vocal enough for the both of them. In fact, if he hadn’t finally given up on his rant as to precisely “how fucking wrong that was” when he saw his opinion made absolutely no difference in the scheme of things, Solita was afraid the shouting would draw the attention of her partner-in-(orgasmic)-crime. Isabelle managed to get him to calm down, and now he was brooding in a corner—appetite thoroughly KIA—about being told information on a strictly “need-to-know basis only”.

Solita and Isabelle were standing outside in the main hall. Running through pretty much the core of the whole ship, every door led out to it and it also served as a direct connection from the control room to the back of the ship where Royce and Isabelle stayed; the only part that actually divided the hall from the airlock were shallow incline ramps that went up along the walls: the only openings in the massive wall of metal that divided it from the rest of the ship and the farthest point either of the two humans were willing to venture into the unfamiliar territory of the hunter’s ship. And, leaning against the wall where they knew Royce wouldn’t hear them, the two women underwent the closest thing to girl-talk they were going to get considering the circumstances.

“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question.

Isabelle’s initial reaction had been far more gracious than Royce’s, but her face was still incredulous and, in truth, she didn’t really know how to feel about what she’d been told.

“Mm,” was all Solita could manage, still feeling the scalding heat on her face from Royce’s outburst.

The sniper woman nodded vaguely, mind still running rampant with the idea. Apart from Solita, Isabelle had been the only other member of their original group of survivors that had known about the hunters; though, what she knew could barely be called “limited” and hadn’t served her nearly as well as what the other woman’s knowledge had done for her. What information she had already known was scant and very broad: the general physical appearance of the creatures, projectile weapons and invisi-camo, and a merciless appetite for trophy hunting. Everything Solita had told her seemed to contradict every aspect of the brutal monstrosities she had imagined in her head, and she wasn’t entirely sure what kind of picture she was painting, now.

After an excessively awkward moment, Isabelle nervously attempted to go on, voice low with earnest but guilty curiosity, “Was he . . . _big_?”

Solita made a sound of utter torment as her face lit up again and resisted the urge to just slap herself, because of course she’d get asked that. The worst part was for a split second she actually considered answering—and with the equivalent of what it probably felt like to get utterly rearranged with a jackhammer.

Isabelle took back the question and miserably pulled some stringy bangs from her face, grimaced, and worried she’d offended the other woman. “Sorry, I’m just . . . having a little trouble with this.”

 _You think you’re the only one?_ Solita thought. She was by no means regretting anything that’d happened between her and Thorn in the past twelve hours, merely questioning the merits behind and exactly what the hell her intentions had been for informing them of said escapades. As Royce so graciously exemplified, it was something they clearly did not need to be told about and, if her furious blush was anything to go by, not something she really wanted to tell anyone. Although she wasn’t squeamish, her sex life was never something she freely discussed with anyone—under any circumstances.

Still, Isabelle was attentive and clearly not a fool, “But why bother telling us?”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself.”

“You’re not regretting it, are you?” Solita shook her head. Isabelle asked extra quietly: “Are you . . . worried you could get pregnant?”

The idea made both women blush furiously, and a nervous tick made Solita rub at her arm and shift her weight. Her pants were clinging awkwardly and she was painfully aware of being one layer short; Thorn had annihilated her underwear upon taking them off the first time, so now she was forced into going commando. Not something she enjoyed.

“No. The differences in our genetics alone are reason enough, so there’s no way we’d be compatible enough to conceive.”

Isabelle nodded. That made sense.

Solita itched at the back of her head with more vigor than a simple scratch, new guilt forming in her stomach from the discomfort she had caused her fellow humans.

“I . . . I guess I figured you deserved to know or something. Crazy shit goin’ on behind the scenes and all, I thought you would want to know, but I see it would have been better if I hadn’t said anything in the first place. I’m sorry, I shoulda’ kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have gotten the two of you involved.”

Even with the apology, though, there was a nagging twinge in the back of her mind. A tingling sensation at the base of her skull and a sickly kind of churn in her gullet that let her know there was still something she was missing. Bile and unease in her stomach, a dry mouth and cold skin and limbs trembling so lightly she didn’t notice until Isabelle put a warm hand on her arm, startling her.

“Take it easy, you look like you’re about to faint.”

Solita swallowed and muttered a pathetic apology, grateful Thorn wasn’t there to witness her getting upset over something so insignificant.

Isabelle smiled warmly, helping greatly to ease things over, and pat Solita on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be on Earth soon, and then we can forget this whole fucking mess ever happened.” She meant more about the game planet than what their conversation had been centered on, but the fact remained: finally, they were going home.

“Yeah,” Solita said and looked down, “Earth.”

Home sweet home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Y’varaj_ – fang (ee-vuh-razh)  
>  _Dah’shay-ny_ – fearless (dah-shay-nee)  
>  _M-di h’dlak._ – No fear.  
>  _Pauk! C’jit, c’jit, c’jit. . . . Pauk-de ik’aset . . . !_ – Fuck! Shit, shit, shit. . . . So fucking tight . . . !  
>  _Sei-i, naj Dah’shay-ny._ – Yes, my Dah’shay-ny.


	8. Only Human

Time. She is a cruel and merciless goddess, one who ages great men and beasts into frail beings. Ever-patient and unpredictable, powerful enough to wither mountains into dust. And here, in a realm where peace and content had been earned through blood and the sacrifices of many, it became the murderous, terrifying thing it was always meant to be. Seconds became the hard-won gasps of breath when life hung before the precipice, because time had passed since the game planet and those sacrifices meant nothing. For time waits for no one.

Earth was on the horizon, and with each second that passed, Solita felt her gut quiver and churn in a sickening dance. The affliction grew ever more merciless with every spell. There was an ache inside, she could feel it: a terrible pain which refused to go away, not like hunger or thirst, but something deeper. Something more. She felt it throbbing at the base of her skull and twisting and writhing in the pit of her stomach—in the back of her heart—like nothing she had ever felt before.

The mystery only seemed to further the discomfort; a point was reached where the nausea became pure agony.

By the time she forced her worries away, anxiety was there to take its place, and it _would not_ let her go no matter how hard she tried to pull away. She could not run from it. She could not hide from it.

She could not escape it.

It consumed her. It became her.

Her only claim to solace was this: the knowledge they were going to arrive on Earth soon.

She was going home. Finally, she could see her family again. To ease the hearts and minds of her father, her mother, and her brother—who were undoubtedly worried to the point of illness for her disappearance.

It was a good thing. She should be happy.

Shouldn’t she?

 _Should I be?_ Solita asked herself. Sitting against the far wall near one of the incline ramps, hiding the way her stomach twisted and sickening bile burned the back of throat, she listened to Royce and Isabelle in a heated discussion about their plans.

“I know what I’m doing soon as I get back to the US,” Royce said. Head propped back against the ridged metal of the wall, his eyes were shut with a lethargic, imaginative grin spanning from one ear to the other. “Getting myself a goddamn beer.”

Isabelle grinned and chuckled. Her rifle sat across her lap, equally content with the idea of returning to familiar territory.

“Think I’ll add that to my list, too. Along with getting a safer line of work.”

“Like sky diving. Or base jumping.”

They both laughed, and Isabelle turned her head to Solita, breaking the other woman from her far-off stare. “What about you? You got any plans?”

Solita shrugged and looked at her boots. Other than that phone call to her folks, she honestly wasn’t sure. “Call my family, I guess. Let them know I’m alive.” A half-smile played along her lips, “But a beer does sound pretty good. I need a hangover. It’ll remind me I’m still alive.”

“Funny how when you almost die you start to miss the weirdest fucking things, huh?” Royce laughed, and Solita and Isabelle did, too.

Isabelle shifted to face Solita, welcoming the chance to get a conversation going with the other woman and to get to know a bit more about her before they parted ways. “Who’s in your family?”

“I’ve got my brother, Rollo, and my mom and dad. They’re divorced, though—he’s in Belize; she lives on the Canadian border.” Solita huffed a bit of dry humor, then muttered, “Talk about half-a-world apart, huh?”

“Yeah, my parents are split, too. But, tell me, who taught you about the hunters?”

“My mother, Anna. She’s told me stories for as long as I can remember. She even uncovered a little of the language, like, _gkaun-yte_. That’s a greeting, like hello.”

Both Isabelle and Royce were impressed (the latter less so simply because he didn’t know any better) and nodded, but something must have taken a moment to click because Isabelle’s eyebrows suddenly shot up past her hairline. “Wait. Your mother was Anna? As in _Anna Gonsalves_? Guatemala, ’87?”

Flattered that her mother was something of a celebrity to the other woman, Solita smiled, “The same.”

Isabelle leaned back against her wall with a look of astonished disbelief, letting that new bit of information sink in, and she realized that not only was she not surprised by this but also that it answered _so many goddamn questions_.

“Holy shit. No wonder you made it,” she muttered, awed, then quirked an awkward smile. It really was a small world. “Like mother like daughter, huh?”

Solita laughed. “I guess so.”

Isabelle explained the twist of fate to Royce who was looking a bit left behind, and soon he, too, was high-browed with astonishment. Something else must have come together in his mind, though, because as soon as Isabelle was done explaining what she knew about what happened in Guatemala, he leaned back and opened his goddamned mouth.

“So, does that mean she had an alien fetish, too?”

There was a solid blow that registered in Solita’s stomach, winded with a look of pain, and for a moment she couldn’t really remember how to breathe.

Isabelle’s jaw dropped, and she glared daggers into the man. _“Royce!”_

“What? For all we know, it could be hereditary,” he defended, but it did nothing to win back the woman’s favor.

“You fucking bastard, why the hell would you say something like that after everything we’ve all been through? I can understand yesterday, but that was just low!”

“You were thinking it, too. At least I had the balls to say it.”

Isabelle’s face turned red-hot in fury. “ _Fuck you, Royce!_ Anna survived because she didn’t fight the one that was hunting them! It didn’t see her as suitable prey, so it—”

Isabelle cut herself short when Solita stood up.

There was a flash in Isabelle’s mind of what was probably about to happen next: a lot of screaming, a lot of swearing, and a lot of punching. Solita was going to get in Royce’s face and start a fight neither was going to back down from, and then the hunter was going to show up and God only knew what would happen after that. Nothing good for Royce; that was for sure.

But right when Solita’s clenched fists couldn’t get any tighter and it seemed things were about to get interesting, she shocked them both by turning around and walking right out of the room. Disappearing into the corridor, not a word said.

Not bothering to fight the point or to defend her or her mother’s honor, Solita stared at the paneled floor as she walked, hands shoved deep into her frayed pockets. What was the point? It would all be behind them soon. A memory: a shadow of sight and sound and the flare of purposeless emotions. Like everything that had happened over the course of the past few days, and it meant nothing. It had happened, sure, but now it had ended.

Like every second in every life of every living being ever spawned. Like when Anna and Dutch had survived the hunter in Guatemala; the very next day life went on, uncaring and unkind to the events transpired in the days before. It was the same with the game planet: all the lives lost and the blood that was shed, it meant nothing; even though they had survived, as soon as they returned to Earth it wouldn’t mean anything anymore. They would never talk about it again. Even if they did, who would believe them? Who would understand the trial and trepidation? The agony of claws and fangs, of serrated knives and burning plasma, and the feeling of helplessness and the hopelessness that overcomes you when you realize that you are no more safe in your own skin than the bug you’ve just crushed under your own boot heel?

No one would understand, and no one would care. Because they were human, and what did humans know about the hunt?

Head down, nails digging into her scalp, Solita kept walking until she could go no farther, and she dropped into the pilot’s chair and sat with her head in her hands. Alone in the quiet control room, dragging her fingers through her matted hair, Solita sat beside herself, numb to the tearing strands and hidden scabs until the abused flesh began to bleed again.

What did it matter? What was a little blood? A little pain?

She may as well get it out of her system, now. Once they got to Earth, she would never have this kind of peace again. Never get this chance to be alone with her thoughts in the warm, rumbling womb of the hunter’s ship, nothing around her but foreign things from an unknown world—bearing with them the scents and the scars and the memories of a place derived from the deepest, darkest, and most spectacular fears of man—nothing before her but dead, dark, beautiful space, and nothing beyond that but Earth itself.

Earth. Wind; water; mountains. Plants; animals; humans.

Home.

Solita lowered her head again, nails cutting into the nape of her neck.

_Home._

She didn’t even know what that word meant, anymore.

What was it? Where was it? Who would be there? Would they be waiting for her? Would they know her? Would they know what Hell felt like? Would they know the pain of torn flesh and broken bones? Would they know the hollow pang in the back of your heart when you watch men—good men, bad men—die right in front of you, and you do nothing to help them because you know it’s what the demons hunting you want? Would they know how it felt to sacrifice their humanity to survive? To fight for their lives, clinging to false hopes, begging for the freedom death would bring and yet fearing with every ounce of your soul the act of death itself?

Would any human understand what it was like? To gaze into the eyes—red eyes, obsidian eyes—of death itself, and tell him: No.

No.

Because Solita was going home, and humans would never know what it was like to be a hunter. Not like she did. Not like Thorn did. 

“The fuck is wrong with me?” Solita asked whatever deity might have been listening.

_“Dah’shay-ny?”_

Startled, Solita whipped around and nearly leapt out of the seat—more surprised at the sudden break in quiet than whom the new presence was or what intentions may have been behind it. All that stopped her was the hand that clapped down on her shoulder, a bout of clicks and purrs and a raised eyebrow there to meet her when she looked up.

“Sorry, I just,” she muttered haphazardly, “I was looking for a quiet place to think. I can leave . . . if there’s something you need to do here.”

Thorn shook his head and sat Solita down again. Casual like this was any ordinary day for him, Thorn sat, too, and sprawled himself into the seat across from her, perfectly content and comfortable with himself. Solita would have smiled at how comical it was to see a beast of his magnitude so content to lounge in a swivel chair, but she found little strength to do so. Instead, she turned her gaze away to the control panels and the scenery beyond. Her stomach started to churn again.

The ship was warm, kept at a moist 85°F (29.5°C), but she felt cold for reasons she couldn’t explain. Her gut twisted and arms pulled in to her sides. Hands rubbed together anxiously beneath her legs, unable to meet Thorn’s penetrating, incisive, golden gaze.

His presence was heavy and thick around her. Enveloping, consuming—like a sea of liquid iron. It trickled along her skin and down her back in lines of molten metal, so hot it chilled to the bone. Goose bumps puckered the flesh on her arms, and she tried to repress the shiver that would reveal her state to him, but no matter what she did she couldn’t hide.

She could not escape.

Thorn stood before her when she looked up again, towering like a giant over her lower position in the seat. But his imposing posture was overwritten with a curious tilt of his head, hair tendrils rattling to one side. He motioned his large, clawed hand at her and then to the control panel and observation window before her.

“It’s a nice view,” she said, looking out at the stars and slowly moving spheres.

But Thorn shook his head. He motioned to the controls again.

 _“Ell-osde bu’kridn va’iy-duh ry-d?”_ he said.

Solita went cross-eyed for a second. She wasn’t quite that fluent.

“Do I want to . . . what?”

Thorn grinned and rumbled with gruff laughter, tusks splayed in amusement. Solita frowned, knowing she was being made fun of, but it vanished as he came in close beside her and took her hands in his. Awed but confused, she watched closely and let him guide her to the flight controls, coaxing her fingers around the handles and holding them there, tight but gentle.

 _“Ry’dn de vi’ey-nah,”_ he rumbled right beside her head, hair grazing over her shoulders, looming with his strong arms loosely around her. _“W’aant fff-lie shy’p?”_

That got her attention.

Solita’s eyes snapped open, shocked, and she looked up at Thorn in alarmed disbelief.

“Fly the ship?” she gaped. “I can’t fly this thing!”

Thorn just smiled, a light purr rumbling through his chest and across her shoulders. Only then did she notice the distance between them—or lack thereof.

The proximity was astounding, and with the proper lighting she could see his face in total detail, now. And she realized it was for the first time. She took him in. More than just the basics. A thin, greenish scar on his lower left mandible that stretched back along his jaw, disappearing under his hair; black speckles steeped across his dusty golden hide, darkening it in natural camouflage; dermal spines which stood sharp along his brow, cheekbones, and down an angled jaw line; and the myriad of emerald veins and subtle scarring from ancient battles long passed.

He cocked his head, and Solita immediately turned back to the controls, trying desperately to keep from looking back.

“I can’t fly this,” she insisted, more in hopes of distracting herself than convincing Thorn she couldn’t pilot. “Sure, I tried my hand at learning to pilot a helicopter once, but this is not the same. I don’t know how any of this works, Thorn.”

Thorn’s smile returned. Tapping her head with his hand, he husked again, _“Ie teee’ch.”_

Solita glowered up at him, reasonably apprehensive. “'You teach?' You realize that with my luck, even in the middle of nowhere I’ll crash us into something.”

He just chuckled.

With the autopilot still engaged, Thorn led her through a few short simulations, motioning her through the proper maneuvers—what made the ship go up and down, left and right—and let her get a feel for the strength of the controls. Just as he suspected, Solita was a quick learner. With each little mistake she made, she corrected quickly and never made it again, picking up on the hints he threw for her about cabin pressure and proximity alerts and learning what certain queues on the controls meant and the actions of certain switches and button combinations.

It wasn’t long before Thorn was confident enough in her that he disengaged the autopilot, still with a steady handhold on the controls as support. Solita felt the energy shift in the ship’s frame, especially when the handle gears tightened like they’d been given an added weight. The only thing she wasn’t ready for, however, was when Thorn abruptly let go of the controls.

“Wait, don’t—!”

She didn’t get the chance to finish.

With the ship coasting nearby a gas giant, a shift in gravitational force grabbed hold of the keel. The ship took an abrupt nosedive before it could be recovered. Her heart and stomach shot up into her throat. Sheer terror gripped her. Like being hung from the edge of cliff. Gut clenched. Muscles seized. Hunter and human lurched suddenly forward, and Solita tensed up. She screamed.

Thorn snatched hold of the handles and leveled them out instantly, taking an immediate mental note _never to do that again_. Newly composed, he exhaled and looked at Solita. He blinked. Her skin had gone white and her teeth were clenched hard enough to nearly fuse, arms trembling, controls latched in a death grip to rival a constrictor’s.

A low, rumbling purr brought Solita back to herself. She stared at his hands on her arms, stroking them carefully and coaxing her back to calm. Heart pounding a thousand miles an hour, feet cold, hair standing on end. Slowly, she pried her fingers free only after realizing the autopilot was back on.

She glowered up at him, pale and exasperated. “Don’t. _Ever._ Do that again.”

When she was ready to try again, Thorn made sure to ease his hands off the controls this time. Gradually, she regained her confidence, and Thorn loosened his hold bit by bit. Watching carefully, letting her get a feel for the pull and the weight of the ship; her eyes focused out the observation window, darting across the panels to check, check, and triple check the functions he had pointed out before whisking back outside and repeating the cycle.

A rumble of approval emitted through the air. Thorn folded his arms over his chest, admiring the human’s capacity to learn. He would have been more surprised had he not witnessed firsthand the strength of her intellect under the right conditions: when her wellbeing hung in the balance, she could grasp even the complexity of the yautjan mind in order to understand what made the hunter’s tick—and how to destroy them. That was something he could truly appreciate, especially as a fellow hunter.

He observed her for a good while as she got the hang of it, and gradually a smile began to curve across her lips.

 _I’m flying an alien spaceship,_ Solita thought, glancing down at the panels and back again. Struck by the revelation. _I’m flying a fucking alien spaceship. Holy shit. This is awesome._

“Whoa.”

Thorn nodded appreciatively from her side, clicking and chirring his praise.

After a short time of minor weaving and experimenting with pulling the ship up and down, Solita traced her hand back to the autopilot command and reengaged the control. She took her hands off slowly and then plopped back against the seatback. Her stomach was still feeling a bit queasy from that first mistake.

Thorn chuckled from the copilot seat across the way.

 _“Gkei’moun,”_ he rumbled, tusks clacking, nodding his head.

Solita glared at him. “Easy my ass.” He burst out laughing. “I nearly killed us.”

Thorn shook his head, tusks splayed and shoulders rocking up and down, and it wasn’t long before Solita herself began to smile, finding his weird growling guffaws contagious, trying not to giggle and failing miserably at it. At last she gave in and relaxed into the pilot seat and just laughed with him. Grinning and giggling like some crazy fool, and he was just the same. Letting the ease wash over her troubled mind and erase every worry and lingering doubt still hidden away inside. Every thought of heartache and foreboding that plagued her thoughts came forward to be overwritten, purged and then replaced with the most simple of pleasures: stupidity and joy. Thorn was damn near therapeutic. 

But even as all her worries vanished, one still remained.

When the laughing was done and a deep, warm, comfortable silence had set in between them, leaving both parties smiling and content, Solita turned her head to Thorn.

“Thorn,” she murmured, smile beginning to fade, “how much longer do we have . . . ?”

His smile waned away a bit as well, and he checked the chronometer hidden among the control functions. He raised his fingers, rumbling quietly.

“Nine hours?” Solita’s eyes widened a bit.

 _Only hours, now?_ she thought and looked out the observation window. They were close. So close. So unbearably close.

A solemn churn invaded her insides, and she felt her heart stutter and fall. Looking down, one arm winding around her middle, she stood up.

Thorn kept his eyes quiet and focused outside, watching the fantastic structures pass by at a lazy pace and hating them for reasons he couldn’t explain, but he was drawn suddenly away when a presence and force invaded him. Head snapped around and hands came up instinctively in response when Solita slid herself onto his lap. A volley of clicks and purrs disturbed the quiet, large, clawed hands latched around her slender waist with a look of surprise. Her boldness never ceased to amaze him.

But Solita neither said nor did anything at first, content to simply look at him, fingers laced at the nape of his neck. There was a look in her eyes that he couldn’t place. Half-lidded and glistening, blunt white teeth gnawing at her fleshy bottom lip. For a moment he almost thought she looked like she was in pain until her eyes shut and she pressed her forehead against him.

Feeling properly claimed, Thorn pressed back tenderly and rested in his seat, breathing her in and purring ever so softly. His body warmed against her touch, flesh tingling with the intimacy of such a simple gesture. Her fingers began to trace the line of bone down his jaw and along the lower mandibles; his purrs grew slightly louder. Taking him in: the warmth of his breath, the scent, the weight of his presence, and the feel of his hands. Solita memorized every little detail like this was the very last time she was ever going to see him.

“Thorn,” Solita breathed, nose brushing against his face, feeling his knife-like tusks graze her cheekbones, claws meshed in her hair, drawing her body closer, holding tighter, “I don’t want to be alone tonight. . . .”

Thorn nodded once and closed his eyes.

Neither did he.

\----------

It was hot. There were scents and sounds: sweat, blood, sex; gasps and purrs, moans and growls.

Smooth flesh was scalding to the touch, dampened by beading sweat and red blood sliding down from the claw marks on her left hip. Heat and fatigue leached away at her strength like the sharpness of a vampire’s bite, but it could not rob her of her desire. Her raw _need_ for him. Not as his arms locked their bodies as one, pumping rapidly. Jaws slack, holding onto him for all she was worth.

“Th-Thorn!” she gasped, snapping her head back as an aching, throbbing spot was struck with every thrust.

Lips parted as an agonizing wave of pleasure radiated out from her core, searing and pulsing hot—like fire—in every vein. Toes curled, legs locked behind his color-splotched back, her hands reached for his neck and latched atop the warm, tarnished rim of the brass coil, fighting to pull closer even as a wanton cry threatened to rob her of her last ounces of sanity.

Rumbles and soft growls echoed between her ears with every powerful thrust, and his clawed hand trailed the full length of her back in one single hip-spine-neck sweep, doubling every shivering sensation as his claws meshed into her hair and pulled. Just enough force to illicit her startled gasp, the curved expanse of her beautiful, pulsing throat was left bare, begging for his attention, and Thorn inched the red braid of her necklace down to reveal immaculate flesh. A river pounding just beneath the surface, egged on by the rugged pistoning of his hips, rocking in deep until she cried his name.

Her flesh called to him, sweat gleaming and blood pulsing; sharp tusks clasped around her throat as arms tightened around his neck, drawing his great body closer, tighter, curling to meet him in harder, deeper, faster strokes, and with his name being repeated over and over into his ear it was a wonder he didn’t claim her flesh then and there. To sink his teeth in and mark her as his own, to know the taste of her flesh and her blood just as well as he knew the feel of her body against him and around him.

He groaned heavily, taken by the tight, tight heat surrounding his pulsing member and the way she seemed to fit it almost perfectly now, taking his girth nearly to the hilt with no sign of discomfort. Paya, it was beautiful: the raw heat and the pleasure, like electricity in his veins. _She_ was beautiful. Though, for the life of him Thorn could not even think of at what point he’d begun to consider her so attractive, the thought meant next to nothing against his desires.

A hard grunt choked him when she involuntarily bucked, and he greeted it with one of his own that made her back arch and emit the most incredible sound. With each thrust, she was brought closer and closer to the edge, and with his hot breath and purrs panting beside her ear and prickling along the surface, she tightened up and moaned and forgot about the world. Fixed to reality by the rippling physicality of every throbbing muscle around and buried inside her, every pulse brought her pleasure jolting higher until she thought it could go no farther, and then he would prove her wrong all over again.

Tusks pricked along her smooth, unguarded flesh, and he tasted the salt of sweat and skin and braced his arm around her waist and hiked her small body up to meet every stroke, groaning at the snug, godlike friction and clenches and spasms of her body and the music in her voice as she _responded_ to him.

Paya, he wanted her. He needed her. Never had he desired a female so strongly in all his life, and she was so willing to give herself over to him. To surrender to him with nothing more than words and a few simple touches. It was incredible; it was breathtaking; it was downright maddening.

 _“Dah’shay-ny,”_ he groaned into her neck, intensifying every sensation as his hand scraped down along her vulnerable spine and grappled with her unruly waist.

“Thorn . . . !” His Fearless cried out, a response to his powerful thrusts. “Ah—ngh! Hhah . . . Thorn! Ah, yes . . . _yes_.”

Fist clenched in her hair and at the small of her back—barely withholding his claws, his bite—and he rocked harder just to hear her say it again. 

_My gods!_

That title she gave him, her pleas and every sound, they were a symphony and they were torture. He liked it when she called him that. More than when those same luscious pink lips moaned around his given name. There was something better, something more personal about what she had chosen to call him. Because no other yautja knew it, no other yautja could say it. It was hers, and it was his, and only she could call him by that name.

_“Th-Thorn . . . ah!”_

His rumbles deepened into growls as he rocked her into the bed furs, clawed hands grappling at everything he could hold. Solita’s hands clutched at his back, pitching and mewling; the way she panted with every thrust and dug her fingers in his shoulders and strangled thick handfuls of his hair had raw, electrical ecstasy eating him alive in seconds. Thorn shivered as he howled, growling tensely.

Their breath was shaking and their bodies were taut, and Solita knew a high like she had never known one before. Her heart was pounding too fast, her body was trembling too hard, and the rush of pleasure radiating from her core was almost too much for her firm, young body to handle. _Almost._

Thick, sticky pre-cum leaked inside her with every growl and rough push forward, slickening and lubricating her passage further and intensifying the pressure building up in her core. She clung to him, fighting for purchase on anything she could get, but his quick jarring movements made it harder and harder to focus on anything but the throbbing rhythm hitting all the right places inside her, and she could feel herself starting to melt—starting to give in. 

Her nails dug into his thick hide, earning her a deliciously low groan and a firm bite where her pulse raced the strongest, gasping wildly at the sudden sting and the sharp rush of fear and the anticipation of pain, frozen in her bones. His body gave an exceptionally hard lunge forward and she cried out, convulsing in preemptive climax, neck arching back; the prick of pain from sharp teeth was secondary. Thorn tasted her blood, and it was all downhill from there.

When a hunter surrendered himself to instinct and the most basic, the most carnal and erotic aspects of nature, two things were certain above all others:

First and foremost came the pleasure: enraptured in the rigorous pounding of his hips, like fire and electricity leaping and entangling from nerve to nerve and body to body, numbing and consuming as much as invigorating and intoxicating. Clasping onto every fiber and twisting it into something foreign and unrecognizable, rendering into a blitzkrieg of delirium and complete euphoria.

And then came the blood: through the scrape of claws on a delicate, tan waistline, back, and thighs, dragging and digging in as if merely to feel the flesh cut and give way under the sharp points and pressure; and then in his fangs and dagger-like tusks that sheathed themselves deep into the crook of her neck and shoulder, greeted with a rush and reward of hot, bizarre red blood. It poured into his mouth and down his throat in gushes, staining the pelts in a vicious display of lust, gore, power, and the overpowering need of connection two beings shared for one another.

Pain and pleasure flooded Solita at once, viciously rutting with his teeth and tusks and taut, stunning member all buried somewhere deep inside her. A new sensation was born that she could neither explain nor entirely comprehend, because as soon as it washed over her head-to-toe in a glorious flash of white-red light and a roaring of heated growls in her ear and ecstasy hammering at her tight, tender belly, she blacked out in a cry and a cascade of loud, messy climax. Thorn was not long to follow, his roar stifled only by his clamped jaws, arms locking their bodies as one, and with a brutal explosion of pleasure he came hard inside her, filling her tight, spasming body with his potent seed until it could hold no more and rushed back down his shaft.

The aftershocks rang hard like a gong in his system for a few more seconds as the high melted, panting gruffly and trembling all over. Dazed and winded, until his senses returned and the taste of copper flared across his tongue. Eyes snapped open the instant he realized what he had done.

_Pauk!_

Thorn pried his jaws free, appalled at the sight of rushing red blood and his Fearless’s limp, unconscious form. In a flurry, he pulled out of her and clamped one of the pelts over the wound to stunt the flow, batting her face carefully and trying to wake her up.

 _“Dah’shay-ny,”_ he rumbled, rough from his roar but riddled with self-loathing, regret, and concern. _“Dah’shay-ny! Pkye’tzan, Dah’shay-ny, pkye’tzan!”_

He shook her for a few tense, worrying seconds. Then she groaned softly and moved her head, eyes tight in protest to the disturbance. Thorn immediately started to purr in anticipation of her fury.

 _“Dah’shay-ny,”_ he purred, carefully shaking her one good shoulder, drawing her further into consciousness.

Another groan, and Solita surprised him when a tired smile curved her lips. She reached up with one hand and pulled him down into a warm, slow kiss. His entire body went rigid with shock, mind blown and dumbfounded, but he managed to relax after a second and did his best to tenderly kiss her back, coaxing his thin, pink forked tongue warily against her lips. A sigh warmed the flesh of his inner pallet, still purring, and she reached up to deepen the exchange only to be greeted with an unexpected and harsh shot of pain.

“Ow,” she hissed and her hand moved instinctively for the source. Instead, she found Thorn’s hand and a strangely damp pelt, purring kicked up a notch, and she opened her eyes to a surprise: Thorn’s teeth and tusks stained red and a metallic smell.

She blinked hazily, mind still clouded by the force of climax and gradual cool down, and was unable to register anything but surprise as she recalled the events which had led up to this.

“You bit me,” she muttered when she found the ability to speak, voice rough and slightly broken from soreness.

Thorn’s face twisted ruefully, regret resurfacing tenfold, and shifted to get off of her and find some bandaging—knowing full well she would not want to touch him for wounding her so severely. Solita, however, seemed to enjoy rattling his sense of reality, because she grabbed onto one of his hair tendrils and tugged him back, sending a hard jolt rocketing back to his libido with a strangled hiss, and shocked him into silence to watch her broad, fleshy pink tongue trail along his tusk, smearing and collecting the blood until it stained her mouth and lips, and then _swallowed_.

His brow twitched.

_Oh, Paya. . . ._

When her arm came up around him, he returned to her without thought or protest and laid inside her hold, wary to keep his weight off and pressure on the wound, and watched with glowing, hungry eyes while she cleaned him in the most spectacular way.

“It’ll make a good scar,” she whispered when she was done, wrapping her mouth around a sharp, spotless lower tusk and teasing her tongue in a circle at the base. “I want it to stay.”

_I want to remember you as many ways as I can._

Thorn groaned something of an affirmative, elation and arousal flooding back through his system from the strangely erotic display, and he had to literally pry himself free of her lusciously warm hold. Guiding her to keep pressure on the pelt, he went quickly into the washroom and retrieved a bolt of bandages and a jar of ointment. She had already managed to sit up under her own strength when he returned, but the pain of the wound was catching up now that the numbing effect of adrenaline and euphoria had faded from her system.

The worst of the bleeding had stopped, thankfully, and as Thorn cleaned the dried blood away to reveal the vicious red circle of teeth and tusks at the muscle where neck and shoulder connected, he grumbled and snarled at his own stupidity and lack of restraint. He coated the wound in the clear disinfectant and bound it up, doing the same with other miscellaneous claw marks, watching Solita as she tried to glance at his progress only to cringe with pain each time. He would rumble disapproval and nudge her chin away a few times until she finally relented, making it clear he didn’t want her to stretch her neck and rekindle the blood flow.

When he was done, Thorn set the remaining materials aside and Solita leaned into him tiredly, physically and mentally drained. Without further ado, Thorn took her gingerly into his arms and laid her down beside him, rumbling and purring as she nosed into his chest, smile returning slowly.

“Hmmm,” she sighed contentedly and murmured, “You’re a real charmer, Thorn, you know that? You nearly took a chunk out of me but still managed to get me right back in your arms. Quite a feat where I come from.” She chuckled.

He huffed once, drawing circles absently into the small of her back. It was no less of a feat for a yautja, either. Had he ever been unfortunate enough to make the same mistake with a yautja female, he would be lucky to make it out alive. It floored him simply that she was not upset with him seeing as he might have killed her had he struck an artery. 

He purred and rumbled softly as he held her, content to have her in his arms, eased and calmed from his earlier fit of self-hatred by the tender ministrations of her hands on his front, drained from mating. Curious to what she was doing, he peeked down and watched her fingers trail the line of dermal spines running the length of his chest and abdomen, noting the texture of each rigid little quill and toying with a couple curiously. The act spurred a deeper, fuller purr from his chest, vibrating through each tiny spine and tickling against her fingertips.

Solita smiled and looked up. “You like that?”

Thorn nodded once, eyes relaxing half-closed to watch as she continued to explore him, as if seeing his bare hide for the first time. A soft smile curled and drew his mandibles up, a constant steady purr resounding in his broad chest.

Solita took him in. Really, truly took him in. The texture and warmth of his hide which, now that she actually looked at it, consisted of a plethora of pint-sized, innumerable, and virtually invisible plates—almost like snake scales but different, able to fit each comfortably on the point of a needle; she never would have noticed them without close inspection—perfectly meshed and infused with the ones around it, so smooth and tightly knit that she physically could not find the direction of the grain no matter how she searched. Just smooth, perfect hide. Then the ripple and ridge of every muscle, rolling one over the other in a constant pattern—not unlike a human’s, only bigger, harder, stronger, better—taunt and firm and solid as stone, but still soft enough to lay her head on and never want to move.

His heartbeat thrummed just beneath the surface, steadied and calm once more with slow, strong, steady beats.

_Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump. Thu-dump-dump._

She pressed into it with a smile, taking in the acutely masculine scent of sweat, sex, and something else that was uniquely Thorn.

And then she found the scars.

“You got all these hunting?” Solita asked slowly, pulling her gaze away from the picture of masculinity that he was long enough to see him shake his head in a lazy but comfortable no.

He lifted one hand from its purchase on her back and brought her attention to a series of two old, yellow-green gashes that marred a jagged line diagonally down his abdomen.

Trailing a claw down the space between them, he rumbled deeply, mandibles twitching to the words, _“Dah’kte de Ku-sai’jhou Thwei.”_ A light growl formed as he remembered the fight and the enemy he had faced.

But Solita understood him. Her eyebrows went up immediately, looking from the ancient scar and back to him. “A Bad Blood did this to you?”

He nodded and pointed out other scars, ones that didn’t follow the pattern of the slash of claws or the tearing of fangs, all a faded yellow-green and a bit difficult to make out against the lighter tones of his color scheme. There were other marks like blades on his arms, another on his side; there were a couple plasma burns that she cringed at, and he reached up and patted behind his shoulder to acknowledge something on his back before starting to move on.

That one Solita went after to see, though, surprising Thorn by getting up to climb over his side and see for herself. He tried to roll over, but she locked her arms behind him on the bed, genuinely curious to see every discrepancy in his otherwise smooth, perfect flesh, unaware that the angle gave him an excellent view of her smooth, curvy behind, which for a second he wasn’t the least bit opposed to—rumbling appreciatively.

On his back Solita found a myriad of smaller cuts and gashes that seemed to run out in straight, jagged clusters in every direction. Dare she say it, but such marks looked vaguely similar to . . . flogging stripes.

Solita blinked several times, and Thorn finally did manage to roll over, looking up at her with a flurry of those bizarre clicks and a quirked brow. She didn’t know it, but her eyes were wide, high-browed with a mix of shock, appall, and dismay.

She spoke before even taking the time to think about her words: “Were you _whipped_?”

Then came the reaction she never expected.

Thorn’s eyes darted away, clicks cut short by a low, low rumble that she could not even hear but was able to feel through her hands on his chest, forehead knitting tight and mandibles meeting with a final _clack_. She felt the pang of deflection in her core, deflating all hope of curiosity, and immediately regretted opening her mouth.

She realized what it meant. Something terrible had happened a long time ago. Something that put him in a situation where there was no escape. There was a choice that needed to be made, but he couldn’t make the call in time, and he paid the ultimate price for it. Paid it in blood then, and was still paying for it now. In his heart and in his mind; the wounds had healed, grown into scars and faded with time, but the mark on his honor remained.

Solita’s gaze softened. Without pause or ceremony, Solita slid up and swung her leg around, bringing his full attention snapping back to her with wide-eyed surprise overshadowing the other emotions. Seeing the human perched perfectly atop his waist, slim hands set to his breathing chest, messy, curly black strands falling over her shoulder to hide the fresh bandages, and dark brown eyes half-cast with something he could not hope to recognize, his mind was sent reeling in too many ways to possibly be healthy.

Big hands cupped her hips immediately on instinct, watching with glowing eyes as she slid down in a slow, languid stretch and pressed into the muffled thrum of his heart, feathery soft lips grazing tender kisses across his flesh. His purrs came back full force, but he tripped over them as her hands glided down his abdomen.

“What’s in the past is done, Thorn,” she whispered, breathing hot puffs onto him, barely audible above his rumbling chest. “It can only hurt you—only haunt you—if you let it. You’re too strong to let the past cling to you like a parasite. You’re smarter than that, better than that.”

Solita kissed her way slowly along his chest, soft stringy hair cascading over her shoulders and onto his front, leaving a warm trail of soft, radiant bliss as her lips followed the muscles along his collar bone and shoulder, teasing a cluster of spines there. Thorn purred his delight to every ministration, chest swelling at her murmured praises, and drew small circles into her hips and sent shivers crawling up her spine with a quiet gasp.

“You’re a hunter, Thorn,” she breathed against his jaw and into his ear; his grip tightened just a little more, “a warrior, and a damn great one at that. You haven’t made it this far for nothing. You’ve proven your worth by being stronger than anything you’ve ever faced.” His purrs kicked up louder, and she smirked, leaving a feathery kiss to tease below his eye, parting with the soft sound of her kiss. “I may not know everything there is to know about you, but I damn well know enough to say you don’t deserve to let anything haunt you. Not like this.” She murmured, “Inner demons suck, I know.”

A quick, rumbling chuckle burst from his chest, but was quickly swallowed as she captured the whole length of a mandible in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the base; he could feel the smooth, flat edge of the organ graze the sharp tip of his tusk, twitching reflexively to the assault. His eyes fluttered, breath quickening without his knowing, fascinated and confused as much as aroused by such a bizarre, intimate display. She retracted her mouth slowly a minute later, leaving a damp sheen behind and a thin cord of saliva which connected them briefly before getting licked away.

A thick, heavy purr rumbled through his entire body, clasping her hips firmly, possessively, stroking the smooth flesh of her rear until her entire body shivered, slight hands quaking on his shoulders, and she pressed one last kiss into his brow and between his eyes.

She whispered as she did, “Let me make all your worries disappear.”

His eyes rolled back into his head as they shut, and all he could do to keep from lunging on her was to bite his tongue and just nod, growling deeply in self-restraint. He moved to roll her over, but her hands clapped down suddenly on his bare chest and forced him back onto the bed. (She was feeling no pain thanks to the anesthetic he’d used for her wounds.)

“No,” she said, softly but firm. “Stay.”

Thorn obeyed without any protest, watching with curious, glowing eyes as she licked and kissed his chest with the lightest of touches, grazing softly enough that it almost tickled him. Prickles of warm electricity radiated from where their skin connected, and she laid her entire body flush against him, a reward for his obedience and the soft rumbles coaxing her on with greater confidence—not that she needed it. He purred with delight to the warmth of her skin and her slight weight atop him, but he jerked when she suddenly bit down. With blunt teeth, the sting was nothing, and she immediately laid a kiss where she had bitten; he shuddered.

After a while of the same tender, torturous treatment of his body, Thorn stopped concentrating on her progress and just enjoyed every sensation that she supplied him with. Leading him through some strange, alien dance with nothing more than her lips, hands, tongue, and teeth, and in no time he was growling and preening and fighting not to roll her over and claim her again. Instead, he hissed as her teeth came down on his side and was forced to swallow back on his urges; because Thorn was an Honorable Warrior, not a crazy, hormonal Young Blood, and thus he knew the importance of discipline and self-restraint, and he also knew that when a female was taking the time to actually pay attention to a male, one simply _did not interfere_.

A hard shudder quaked through his body, and his eyes rolled back with a growl as Solita drew her tongue against the quills on his stomach, hypersensitive to the moist lave driving a hot line of pleasure up his spine. He growled low in his throat, head set back against the bed furs as his breathing grew more ragged by the second. Every little ministration sent a wave of arousal to his libido, and with a light hiss he felt his member hardening uncomfortably in response—not that he cared.

Thorn was so caught up in the haze of pleasure that he never noticed how low she was getting, or when her teeth left his hip and her soft hands kneaded the top of his thighs.

 _Don’t stop,_ he thought with a deep base of blissful purrs, breath quickening as her lips moved steadily lower.

He didn’t notice anything unusual until he felt her hands gingerly parting his thighs. Curious and a bit confused, he lifted his head, and his entire body jumped. Head snapped back suddenly, knuckles clocking hard onto the edge of the bed frame, and whisked his head back up to see her hands wrapped tight around his. . . .

 _“Pauk!”_ he cursed, and his head flung back again, claws digging into the pelts at the onslaught of sensation.

He didn’t see her when she smirked, but if he had it probably would have undone him right then and there. To say it was torture was utter reverence; he was going to die because of her, and if so he prayed for his gods to take him. He could think of no better way to go than with her hands doing tight, kneading, unimaginable things with _that part_ of him.

Hissing passionately, his back arched out as her grip tightened and she slid her hands up, pulling lightly.

 _“C’jit, Dah’shay-ny,”_ he hissed through his teeth only after finding his gravelly voice again. Breathing went from ragged to shredded, a hard, deep groan clenching in his chest and stomach. He was marble hard so fast that it pained him, but Thorn wasn’t one to protest against a little pain—not from the below the waist, and especially not when the pay-off was so damn good.

“You don’t get touched here a lot, do you?” she whispered, brown eyes glazed black with definite lust, not really needing an answer.

She guessed as much. Creating young was the name of the game for yautjas when mating was concerned—or so her mother had learned, and she uncovered in a few of her personal journals—not for pleasure or mere intimacy as the case usually was with humans. When a female’s only concern with a male was the strength of the offspring he would provide her, Solita figured that little intimacies as simple as a well-placed kiss or caress were completely foreign to the big male—regardless if said female had lips to kiss with. She was not wrong.

Both hands gripped his shaft tightly one over the other with room to spare, and with a careful eye trained to his face, she moved them down at once. He howled and arched his back, but it wasn’t until she added her tongue to the mix—laving and humming against his leaking slit, tasting bitter musk and skin salt—that she heard him literally gasp and let out a roar that rattled her brain.

 _Dah’shay-ny. . . . What—What are you—?_ He couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. His brain physically could not function. Not beyond—or perhaps thanks to—the utter absurdity of exactly what she was doing. Inconceivable to a yautja male. Her mouth. Her teeth. They were—

His hand reached out to her automatically, ready to pull her off when she—

Solita pressed her lips to his swollen head and took it into her mouth, sucking lightly and teasing it in circles with her tongue, reveling in how his body clenched and muscles twitched madly beneath the surface. He snarled gruffly, arm slamming back down onto the furs and hips damn near convulsing underneath her, and it took every ounce of strength and control not to thrust into that wonderful, versatile mouth of hers. But he didn’t have to when her head began to bob up and down, eliciting a thunderous roar and his pulse jumped, taking his length almost to the back of her throat and then gliding back up to lick and suckle on the leaking head.

Thorn panted hot and heavily, growling with each pass of lips, tongue, hands, and the occasional scrape of blunt teeth, all jolting through his system until he was certain he would either lose his mind or every last ounce of self-control—both were slipping at an alarming rate.

 _“Dah’shay-ny,”_ he rumbled gruffly, urging her on. Eyes glowing and half-shuttered, he watched mesmerized as she swallowed him in her mouth and stroked up and down with her hands so that not a single part of him wasn’t being stimulated—silky throat and tight, pumping fists. Her soft moan sent a quake of liquid pleasure shooting up his spine, feeling it from his head down to his toes. He groaned, every muscle clenching and trembling under the assault.

His gut tightened harder by the second; it wasn’t long before Thorn began to scent her musk in the air: thick and potently female. He inhaled deep and savored every breath, thrilling with her attention until his conscious mind trickled back and he couldn’t let his female go without pleasure. It was hard to do, but somehow Thorn managed to find her head amid the euphoric haze, and she broke away with one last, long lick trailing to full length of his engorged, marble shaft, sending a hot shudder through him; his member twitched.

In that moment—with his eyes beholding a feral goddess, gleaming black eyes shining with carnal lust and a complete, utter desire for him (something rare and torturously pleasing)—Thorn was not above begging. He panted, _“Dah’shay-ny . . . t-isak’tse. . . .”_

Some small part of him deep down felt ashamed for resorting to that. Asking permission was what a male would normally do in such a situation, but as soon as the words husked miserably out of his throat—pleading and pathetic—he was certain he had lost her.

Of all the things she could have done in that moment—scold him, refuse him, or just outright leave him there as punishment for sounding so worthless—she smiled, panting and breathless. She growled exquisitely, _“Ki-sei~”_

She came to him immediately, poised perfectly over top of him, and with his hands on her hips for support Thorn was treated to the sight of his spit-slick member disappearing into her tight, lubricated passage. He hissed with ecstasy and utter delight, thrilling at the soft sounds she made as she took him almost completely to the hilt, the tight squeeze of her heated body sliding down and taking in his girth. A heavy sigh parted her lips, head set back, and Thorn blatantly admired the gorgeous view she gave him.

Solita rolled her hips slowly, reveling in the warm ecstasy radiating from her core—the added friction of every light ridge and bulging, throbbing vein, blood pumping through his shaft at the same maddening rate of his heart. Her hands found purchase on her male’s chest, and strong hands guided her hips effortlessly through the motions. Mandibles splayed, clicking and growling passionately as she rode him, Thorn could feel the tight clench in his stomach grow with the threat of release, but he growled at it and held back for the sake of her pleasure.

His efforts did not go unrewarded.

It wasn’t long before Solita found a better pace, and she rocked her body atop him—back and forth, up and down, rolling in tight circles that made Thorn put his head back and groan.

 _Paya,_ he moaned, helping along her stronger rhythm. Every part of him trembled and shook, pushing his hips up to meet her and ears ringing with the sound of her pants and pleading moans.

And when he heard his name begin to be repeated on those wonderful lips of hers, his eyes rolled back and convulsions of pleasure shook through his system. He growled her name in turn, and reveled in it when her head snapped back and jaw fell open, the deep rumble of his purrs traveling through every inch of her tender, over stimulated body.

“Hah, yes. Yes. . . . Thorn, _ah_. . . . Oh, God, _yes_. . . . _Thorn_ . . . !”

It was a perfect, mindless thing to moan as her male rocked his hips with her every move, taut muscles clenching and rippling just beneath the surface. Sweat shone against their bodies, gleaming in contrast to each other and the dim white light. The pace quickened, bringing her body back to him harder, faster, deeper.

Thorn hissed when he felt her nails on his chest, and knew instinctively she was getting close. He purred and rumbled and growled, grappling with her hips as her lips parted in quick, hot, ragged gasps. To watch as his female lost herself in rapture was breathtaking, jaw tensing with the most incredible sounds, pushing and pulling and grinding until the pleasure was all her reality was centered on—the raw push of ecstasy and the big, powerful sex-god who provided it.

Back bowing forward, hands clenched into his hard, damp chest, Solita panted and moaned, _“More,”_ and Thorn zealously obliged. He thrust his hips up and watched, eyes glowing; she threw her head back and gasped wildly, and Thorn continued to thrust, gradually coasting into a hard rhythm that made the sound of slapping skin fill the room—appealing to a very animal side of him.

The heat in her center grew hotter and tighter, clenching and spasming around his every thrust, convulsions riding her scalding flesh; her moans came ever louder and more satisfying each time. Pulling and thrusting compulsively, unable to stop the rapid fire of his hips as her young body rocked up and down.

Seconds later, Solita came forward and pressed every inch of her body onto his front, panting and moaning, keening with shrill cries that rang like bliss in his ears, riding him mercilessly as he met her thrust-for-thrust. Every blistering rush of pleasure intensified by the intimacy and nearness, she reached out and wrapped her arms around the big male’s neck, head tucked underneath his chin. He breathed her in, smelling musk and sweat and trust, and it made his mind numb—one arm wound tight around her back as the other brought her hips to meet him firmly each time.

 _“Dah’shay-ny,”_ he moaned her name gruffly, answering her calls as she repeated his name over and over into his neck. Blatantly worshipping his animalistic prowess.

With one exceptionally deep lunge, Solita’s entire body tensed, adding a delicious kind of difficulty to every pistoning thrust, and drew a heated growl from deep in his chest. She stiffened, jarred by exactly how close she was, and pushed up onto her elbows, limbs shaking horribly.

Solita pressed her face into Thorn’s, breathing heavily—so close, the mix of hot breath made them twice as dizzy. Suddenly desperate, “Hah-ah . . . ! Thorn . . . please. _Please . . . ! Ah!_ ”

Thorn’s eyes snapped open, and he found her there gazing at him, dark eyes half-cast, shining and bright under waves of heat and euphoria. Golden, amber eyes glowed with the rush pounding in his veins, and with the burning connection he felt staring into those deep, dark eyes of hers, he felt his peak stop dead—and come roaring back twofold, with her brow pressed against his own.

He clutched Solita close, and they went over the edge together—the image of each other’s eyes seared to their very cores: imprinted. In a burst of heat and tight, clamping muscles, they roared and cried out each other’s names, curling in and meshing as one. Thorn flooded his seed into Solita’s waiting womb, and she clasped his hair and chanted his name in the most beautiful song—the universe could not possibly compare with her.

When the heat at last emptied a few steaming, glorious seconds later, their bodies still locked in a tight clench of shocked, spasming muscles, Solita gasped and melted onto her mate. Panting and breathless, chest against heaving chest, they cooled down into a state of blissful high like a pair of stunned, heat-struck animals.  
Thorn pried his death grip from her waist, bandages frayed and new welts formed from the drag of his claws, and held her close. Her tan back slickened by sweat and hair clinging to it in every good way, Thorn drew absent little circles into her flushed, hot skin; he stumbled on his purr until he finally got it going, and relished in the way she nestled into his still-fast heart and laid there, minds blown and perfectly fulfilled. Smiling tiredly.

\----------

A short while later—and after some incoherent manner of twisting and shifting of their bodies—Solita found herself with Thorn’s head resting peacefully in her lap. Both perfectly nude and not the least bit concerned by it, content in a comfortable silence, still smelling like sweat, sex, and everything good.

Solita ran her hands softly over his head. Admiring the smoothness of his large brow, the texture of his hair in her lap, toying occasionally with his dermal spines, and ghosting her fingertips over the roots of his hair just to hear his purr falter and feel his muscles twitch.

She was just so happy. God himself could not take that from her.

Not now. Not here. Not when she started to hum. And—with a bit of silent encouragement and the soft bliss of perfect ease—not when she began to sing.

_Right now I feel - just like a leaf on a breeze_  
_Who knows where it’s blowin’?_  
_Who knows where it’s goin’?_

Thorn opened his eyes, purrs silencing. He gazed up at her in wonder: her soft, quiet smile and sweet, sweet voice.

_I find myself somewhere I - I never thought I’d be_  
_I’m going round in circles_  
_Thinkin’ about you and me_  
_And how do I explain it when I don’t know what to say?_  
_What do I do now? So much has changed_

_Nothing I have ever known - has made me feel this way_  
_Nothing I have ever seen - has made me want to stay_  
_But here I am - ready for you_  
_I’m torn and, I’m fallin’ - I hear my home callin’_  
_Hey - I’ve never felt something so strong - oh no_  
_It’s like nothing I’ve ever known_

Her gaze cast a soft, silent gleam over him, awe in his wide, golden eyes. He could do nothing more than to lay there and watch her, to listen to her.

In that moment, Thorn knew what angels sounded like.

_Now, you’re the one I’m lookin’ for_  
_You’re the one I need_  
_You’re the one that gives me - a reason to believe_  
_Following a star - has lead to where you are_  
_It feels so strong now - this can’t be wrong now_

_Nothing I have ever known - has made me feel this way_  
_Nothing I have ever seen - has made me want to stay_  
_Here I am - ready for you_  
_I’m torn and, I’m fallin’ - I hear my home callin’_  
_Hey - I’ve never felt something so strong - oh no_  
_It’s like nothing I’ve ever known_  
_It’s like nothing I've ever known_

Her voice tapered off into a gentle, quiet hum, and Thorn found himself admiring her for more than just the strength of her body, the passion in her heart.

His Fearless was . . . something else.

_Right now I feel - like a leaf on a breeze_  
_Who knows where it’s blowin’?_  
_And who knows where I’m goin’?_

Solita smiled at him, and for the first time in his long life Thorn felt something tighten in his chest. Something painful, yet sweet. Something he could not possibly hope to explain.

 _“A’due’ha,”_ he rumbled quietly. It was the only thing he could think to say. But no words did her justice. She transcended them.

Solita tried to hide her giggle with a hand but failed, red in the cheeks and more than a bit embarrassed to have put on a show for him.

“Thank you,” she smiled.

Hair fell over her shoulder as she looked down at him, massaging small circles into his brow. Thorn purred and nuzzled her hands, making her smile grow.

They stayed there with each other for a long while. The gentle words coasting through his mind, Thorn knew a peace that he had never known before. It was consuming. It filled his heart and his mind, and it held him there in a warm, tender embrace that he simply could not pull away from. Physically and mentally could not separate from. Not even if he wanted to—which he did not. Committed to the deepest sphere of memory, he took the sound of her voice and the bliss of each beautiful word and made them a permanent part of himself. So he would never forget.

Solita’s hands pressed slowly along his brow, kneading and rubbing careful circles down his jaw with her thumbs, bringing back those wonderful, blissful purrs that she enjoyed so much. Moving down his chin and neck, massaging the ridge of his collar bone and over across the broad span of his shoulders. His purrs trembled and vibrated through her fingertips, tickling them as she rubbed down his dense hide. For a moment, Thorn’s eyes slid shut and delighted in her touch, soothing and comfortable.

Massaging circles into his chest with her thumb, Solita slid her hand down his arm and coaxed it up, drawing his eyes up curiously. The warmth of her hand as their fingers meshed together, one so small and feeble compared to the might of the other, and Solita pressed her lips against his knuckles. She smiled. He purred.

Mesmerized by her sweet, gentle touch, Thorn watched his female press her lips into the heel of his palm. Taken by such an affectionate display, Thorn grazed his knuckles against her cheek and saw her eyes soften and flutter to the touch, his purr picking up louder, more content. She kissed his hand again, and he caressed her face. Her smooth cheek and velvet lips, even the soft edge of her jaw and the delicate span of her neck. The pulse beat calmly, quietly just beneath the surface. The band of her necklace complimented a simple beauty.

Solita held him there, and he felt her pulse against his palm, her thumb tracing circles across each knuckle.

In a moment, something came to surface in her eyes. Dim but decisive. Dawning in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her heart. She realized something and made a decision.

Solita reached up beneath her mane with both hands and Thorn watched the necklace come lose, leaving her throat empty and uncannily bare. Surprising him, she took his hand and retied the knot around his wrist, sturdy but not uncomfortably tight. The new item and disturbance felt strange to be there, ghosting over his flesh with no weight at all, meager and insignificant. He looked at it curiously, confused by such a gesture, and fiddled one of his claws in the gap between one of the leather braids.

“It was my mother’s,” Solita said quietly.

He craned his head up, new wonder in his eyes.

“It’s made from buffalo hide, so it’s very strong. My father made it for her when he first confessed his feelings. Each braid represents the unity between mind, body, and spirit, and the two braids bound together stand for a union of two entities, two worlds—” She set her hand tenderly atop his strong, broad chest, feeling the beat thrumming just beneath the surface. “—two hearts. I want you to have it.”

Amazement widened in his eyes, struck with the importance of such a trivial looking thing. A gift from her sires was no small novelty. He couldn’t just take something of such great value. It wasn’t his place. He had no right.

 _“Dah’shay-ny, mot-hy—”_ he began to protest, but she stopped him.

“It’s mine to give,” Solita said, shaking her head. She pushed his strong hand back down to him. “You’ve done so much for me, Thorn. You changed my life, and I will always be grateful to you. I’ll never forget you.”

She turned her gaze away, and water began to pool in the corners of her eyes. His purrs grew stronger.

“I just,” she tried not to choke, “I don’t want you to forget about me.”

Thorn’s piercing eyes softened. When the moisture in her eyes deepened, he righted himself and faced her, claws twining delicately into her soft, tangled locks, and met her gaze with caring, thanks, and gentle concern in his own. Thorn shook his head softly, rumbling a response, and met her brow in that same tender exchange she had taught him in their short time together. Both eyes shut, listening to each other breathe. Warmth radiated between them.

 _“Mo,”_ he rumbled silently. His purr trembled through her mind, blotting out the world. _“M-di nha rk’tei-o. M-di nha.”_

Her heart fluttered and warmed as the words came together and turned over in her mind. A weight inside lifted, filling her chest to its brink, and her throat tightened in meaningless defense to the rush of emotion that followed. Silently, with every fiber of her being and in every ounce of her soul, she thanked him. She thanked him.  
“Thank you,” Solita breathed, not trusting her own voice.

His purrs wrapped around her heart, and he pulled her against him. Embraced against his chest, warm and safe, Solita wrapped her arms around his back and never wanted to let go. Because she knew that as soon as she did, she would never be able to hold him like this again. To push up into the strong wall of muscle and brawn and feel the gentle power of his arms, holding her so tight and secure, letting the world fade away.

\----------

Time: a cruel, merciless goddess—uncaring and callous because she transcends thought and emotion; she does not feel love or remorse, hatred or sorrow. Slow is her approach, but swift is her hand and the retribution of her will: ruthless, pitiless, omnipotent, and eternal. Doomed are the living beneath the weight of her gaze, her patient hand, the rise of her steady blade, for she does not discriminate for friends, for enemies, for brothers and sisters, for sons and daughters and mothers and fathers, and certainly not for lovers. And as fate and time draws the living together—in a dance perhaps of mercy, passion, joy, or ill-will—so too does it tear them apart.

The flames passed the observation window as atmospheric entry faded behind them. There was a well of nausea churning in her stomach, agonizing and deep. Her feet were cold and her hands were shaking. She couldn’t breathe right. Her head was spinning. Solita tried passing it off as excitement. _Tried._

Somewhere in the center-South West of the North American continent, with the orange sun giving way to the first shades of pink and red at the start of sundown, the hunter’s ship coasted into the quaint corner of a pine forest next to a river and a road nearby. It edged into a clearing, scattering the horror-struck animals which lived there, and the roaring engine turbines slowed to a howl after the momentary jar of touch-down and then died off altogether.

Thorn disengaged the cloaking system, killed the engines, and hit his fist on the automatic release for the rear bay doors. He was silent, eyes fixed outside, hating the simple marvel of fresh air, scenery, and unworthy prey. Hating Earth itself.

Solita stood up from the copilot seat. With her, her bone daggers were sheathed in the belt loops on her sides and her axe was at her back, Black Jaw’s mask tied to her belt by a cord, patting attentively against her thigh with every movement. The gleam of smoldering obsidian eyes was gone, faded and dead. The demon was dead. He was a memory, now. A trophy to remind her why she was alive, and why life was worth fighting for—but that meaning seemed to wane with the knowledge of imminent departure, of goodbye.

Thorn rose from his place and followed her.

The silence between them was deafening. Neither knew what to say, but not for the same reasons. 

When they reached the back of the ship, the sunlight cascaded in from all around and Solita blinked, no longer accustomed to natural lighting.

Royce and Isabelle were already outside.

Isabelle was slumped to her knees on a patch of wet grass and green pine needles, face and hands buried in it, breathing in deep; shoulders rocked with some unseen emotion, either laughing or crying—both worked. Royce was set face-first into the trunk of a tree, sucking in the strangely familiar smell of rain water, clean air, pine, and other various things that were both uniquely foreign and completely ordinary. He breathed in like a tweeker getting his first fix in days. Then, Royce put his head back and laughed. Laughed hard for nothing more than the simple amenity of knowing where they were.

It was Earth. They were back. They were _home_.

Isabelle laughed, too. It was so surreal.

Solita stood at the top of the exit ramp. Not knowing how to make her legs move.

She thought about her family. Her father, her mother, her brother. She couldn’t wait to see them. To tell them all the crazy shit that had happened in the past few days. Not even her mother would want to believe her, but they would—after listening to the detail she described every second of gut-wrenching fear and desperation and showed them the scars from each encounter and the weapons and her trophy, they would have to be in denial not to believe. The mask and the axe would be what got them. Especially her mother.

But her feet were glued. Tendons cemented, legs too weak to function.

Solita looked over at Thorn. He was staring outside at nothing in particular, a far-off look that she couldn’t discern—some sickening cross between remorse, anxiety, and dismay, not that she could read a yautja that well to recognize it. Mandibles twitched with unreadable eyes, rumbling low in his chest. His hands were flexing tightly down at his sides, claws digging and scraping against the palms: a habit of when there was something gnawing away inside him but didn’t know what to do with it.

Solita turned to him, and he faced her. She put on a smile, but somehow it felt wrong to be there.

“Thank you again, Thorn,” she said, “for bringing us back. I—we really are in your debt.”

He nodded slowly, not knowing what to say. Yautjas didn’t do long goodbyes. It simply wasn’t in their nature.

Solita recognized that he wasn’t going to say anything, so she went on.

“What are you going to do, now?” She wasn’t entirely sure why she asked. Perhaps it was just to fend off the silence, or to delay the inevitable.

He rumbled and shrugged, a very human gesture. But the answer was there: go back to doing whatever it was he’d been doing before. Life and custom didn’t change so easily for a yautja. Near death experiences came with the lifestyle. He wouldn’t be a good hunter if his outlook changed after every close call—every twist of fate and chance encounter.

He had to go back. It was all he knew. Just like Earth was all Solita had known. . . .

Or was it?

Her induction into the hunters’ lifestyle was rocky and unfortunate at best, but she had been successful. She had survived. She overcame and conquered her enemies. She made it through to the sunrise and proven herself as a hunter, a warrior. She was worthy.

Or could she not see that?

Solita nodded and brought her smile back, as genuine and real as she could manage without making herself sick. She rubbed her arm mindlessly, goodbyes not her strongpoint either.

“Good luck,” was all she could think to say after a while. “You’re a great hunter, Thorn. Don’t let anyone tell you differently; they’re just jealous.”

She took her first step down the incline ramp, immediately hating herself for saying something so stupid. Why couldn’t she have spent her last few hours thinking up something meaningful or ceremonious to be her final words to him? Better than some nonsensical attempt at boosting his self-esteem? But then she remembered it had all been spent with him, on a throne and in his bed, and she would never regret a goddamned second of that—for as long as she lived.

She considered waving, but decided against it. Her stomach was turning, heart chugging, sick; her hands were shaking; her skin felt cold.

“Goodbye.”

But as she turned to join Royce and Isabelle on the ground—on Earth, on home, on the place she had been taken from and fought tooth and nail and shed blood, sweat, and tears to return to—a single hand reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. Halting cold, Solita turned. Her heart fell into her stomach. For the very first time, she saw true conflict in Thorn’s eyes. Fear and remorse; his second-thought. He was fighting, inside and out. Fighting for her. Fighting to keep her.

_“Dah’shay-ny. . . .”_

Too much emotion and not enough thought clouded his mind. He couldn’t think. He could barely even breathe. This was his only chance. He couldn’t watch her go. He had to make it right.

He had to make her see.

He rumbled huskily; in every fiber of his being, he willed her to understand: _“Ssst-ay.”_

At first she looked confused, uncomprehending. Then her eyes came alive with something that made his heart race, and just as suddenly her breathing grew quick, shallow, and labored. Heavy like it hurt, impossible to breathe. Her hand flew to her chest unconsciously, fisting the ragged material over her heart.

She recoiled back from him as if he were holding his arm up to strike, blood rushing out of her face. Leaving her pale and cold. The look hit him harder than any blow, cut deeper than the sharpest blade.

Her eyes were wide, brimming with shock and confusion, even terror. But he didn’t understand. Why was she suddenly so afraid?

Inside, Solita felt something tear. Because she knew what she would have to say, now. And it broke her on a level no living being should ever have to experience.

Her head shook and her body began to tremble; she felt it in his touch. Eyes shut, fighting back the tears.

Voice quivering, pathetic and constrained, “I-I-I can’t. I can’t stay, Thorn. . . . I can’t. . . .”

_Yes, you can, _he thought. He tightened his grip, daring to step closer to her—to his Fearless—to his mate._ _

“I’m not a hunter like you. . . .”

_Yes, you are._

“I don’t belong here.”

_Yes, you do._

“This isn’t my world. It’s not . . . where I belong.”

_Yes, it is._

“I’m only human. . . .”

Thorn’s breath left him as something twisted remorselessly inside. A shock of unfamiliar pain left him numb, dumb, and paralyzed.

His head reeled. His heart was in his gut. He couldn’t breathe.

Thorn could only watch as she pulled free and backed away. A single tear ran down her face, but she wiped it away before it could be seen.

She choked one last time, “Goodbye. . . .” and Thorn watched her flee down the ramp and rejoin her fellow humans.

She said something to them he didn’t hear, and they nodded.

Together, the three humans turned and parted into the forest. Thorn watched them go silently, and felt something in his core leave with them.

Red in the face and eyes still watering (from “the change in atmosphere” and “the huge relief it was to finally be in familiar territory”), Solita put her arms around her survivor counterparts and led them the way towards the road, grinning through the tears and a hallow echo of pain in her chest.

Inside, Solita knew what it felt like to die.

Only Isabelle looked back, for she was attentive and clearly not a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gkaun-yte._ \- Hello.  
>  _Ell-osde bu’kridn va’iy-duh ry’d?_ \- Do you want to learn to fly the ship?  
>  _Ry’dn de vi’ey-nah_. - I will teach you to fly.  
>  _Gkei’moun._ \- All too easy; Easy; Simple.  
>  _Pkye’tzan, Dah’shay-ny, pkye’tzan!_ \- Wake up, Fearless, wake up!  
>  _Dah’kte de Ku-sai’jhou Thwei._ \- A Bad Blood’s wrist blades.  
>  _Pauk!_ \- Fuck!  
>  _C’jit, Day’sha-ny!_ \- Shit, Fearless!  
>  _Dah’shay-ny . . . t-isak’tse. . . ._ \- Fearless . . . please. . . .  
>  _Ki-sei._ \- I understand; Yes.  
>  _A’due’ha._ \- Beautiful; Wonderful.  
>  _Mo. M-di nha rk’tei-o. M-di nha._ \- No. I will never forget you. Never.
> 
> Song used: "Nothing I Have Ever Known" by Bryan Adams


	9. Homecoming

The air was cold and damp from a recent thunderstorm. The sun and sky parted ways over the horizon, splashing out rays of pink, violet, and various reds on the fringes of twilight and stealing with it the meager warmth in the thin forest air and replacing it with a bitter chill that ran Solita to the bone. Seasons put them in around early-to-mid fall, and the wind blew cold air down the valley from the surrounding mountain summits. Now she remembered why she hated the cold.

Solita stood at the roadside rubbing the goose bumps on her arms. She looked both ways down a stark empty and seemingly abandoned mid-country highway, one leg propped up on the trunk of an old toppled pine tree. There was a dead deer about fifty yards downwind, skull caved in and every bone shattered; flies hovered around it but there were no signs of larger scavengers yet. Its presence was reassuring in that it meant _someone_ had used this road recently enough. Maybe they would return.

A few more minutes of watching and waiting and Solita got her answer. The glow of headlights appeared over top the hill to her left, heading down in a slow and leisurely arc. Leg up, she put her shoulders back, chest out, postured her waist and stuck out a thumb.

Solita squinted the instant the high beams hit her and a mint green pickup truck with rust stains sputtered to a halt directly in front of her. The driver looked to be in his mid-forties, calloused hands and tanned by years of hard labor, a light stubble forming along the loose skin of his jaw. Were he a few decades younger, he might have been rather attractive with a smile that charming.

“How can I help you, miss?” he asked with a thick country drawl.

“You wouldn’t happen to be headed for the nearest town by any chance?” she asked, working that smile she mastered midway through high school and folding her arms over the open passenger window.

“I’m headed wherever you’re headed, my Amazoness.”

“Any good bars there?”

His smile widened, puckering under his old, time-weary eyes. “Best one this side o’ the Rockies.”

“Sounds good.”

Solita put her fingers between her lips and whistled over her shoulder. On the signal, Royce and Isabelle dashed out of the tree line and dove over the side of the truck bed into a crouch before the driver could react, rifles wrapped in a bundle of their vests and invisible in-between them. Royce grinned into the rearview mirror. Wide-eyed and affronted and realizing he’d been tricked, the driver glowered and grumbled at Solita but otherwise didn’t say anything as he grudgingly popped the truck back into gear and Solita climbed into the back as well.

The wind was frigid and exceptionally harsh without a jacket to shield her; it sapped the strength from her bones and made her muscles sensitive and weak. Legs curled in and Solita put her arms around them, leaning into Isabelle for a little extra warmth. The sniper woman didn’t seem to mind; she was far too busy having her head back and enjoying the feel of the wind in her hair and the smell of metal and rubber and the forest air. Royce leaned over the side, watching trees whisk by in a blur of tall shapes, soon losing the feeling in his cheeks but not caring enough to get back into the truck bed.

“You’re going to get a bug in the eye if you keep doing that,” Isabelle warned after a few minutes, only bothering to lift her head just enough to see him.

Royce ignored her though and a few minutes later his head snapped back with a vile curse and wiped his hand across his cheek. Isabelle burst out laughing. Glowering, Royce got comfortable against the edge of the truck bed and pulled one of his legs up, facing into the wind just to hide the big red welt on the other side of his face.

As the ride went on, Solita stared at her knees. She could still smell the trees and the grass and the metal and exhaust from the diesel engine, but she looked at neither. She could feel the wind on her face and in her hair, moist and cold with a bitter chill whistling in her ears, numbing them, re-tangling the mats she had only just managed to work out. There was the hum of the road beneath the tires, a bump and the jolt of impact in the axels, creaking in the ancient weary metal frame.

The rear window slid open after a while, drawing Royce and Isabelle’s attention.

“So where you folks from?” the driver asked over the hum of the road and whistling wind. “Ya don’t look like you’re from ‘round here.”

The three exchanged quiet glances.

“We’re from out of town,” Royce said eventually. 

“Ever a hear of showers where that is? You three look like hell.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to tell us that,” Isabelle said, stifling a grin.

“You been on a camping trip?”

“You could call it that,” Royce said. “We, uh, we got picked up and ran into some trouble. Been roughing it for the past few days.”

“Bet y’all are glad gettin’ back to civilization.”

Isabelle nodded her head with a weary smile and Royce leaned back.

“You have no idea,” he said.

“What about you, my Amazoness?” Solita glanced up but otherwise remained still. “Damn, ya were sweet and sexy a minute ago. Why the long face? Ya look like someone just shot your dog.”

Isabelle looked over at the girl. She was normally good at keeping her emotions in check, Isabelle could say that much from what she knew of her, but she had a tell. Solita hadn’t so much as looked at the sky since they broke the tree line and she flinched at the slightest glimpse of the horizon. Isabelle did her best to bring her fellow survivor out of her internal war-waging and rubbed her shoulder warmly, but Solita still did not look up.

“It’ll be okay,” Isabelle murmured over the hum of the road and the cold wind. “We’re home, now. It’s better this way.”

Something wrenched inside Solita, spiting and painful. Fists tightened in her torn jeans and brow pressed harder against her knees.

“Don’t,” she muttered and shrugged away Isabelle’s arms, “please, just . . . don’t.”

Isabelle frowned but said nothing. She gave Solita some well-deserved space.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, nothing but the wind and road and muffled radio and the driver singing along enthusiastically to whatever Oldies song was playing. Twilight finally gave way to nightfall as they arrived in a small town at the foot of the valley. The driver dropped them off in the parking lot of an old tavern and bid them farewell before driving off. Vivid neon red and green lights above the door said _Pecos Bill_ but some of the letters had gone out and left the glow reading _Peos Ill_. Going inside was an experience in itself. The return to Earth and human culture struck the trio like ice water splashed over a burn, numbing at first and then followed quickly by the shock of sensation—and even a little pain on some parts.

Isabelle and Royce, ever the prepared soldiers that life, profession, and their most recent struggle had made them, took a tally of all the other humans who inhabited the bar. It was late, so thankfully there weren’t many. Just a few bikers shooting pool, some cowboys playing poker, a couple roughnecks at the bar laughing much too loudly, and a bartender and waitress making rounds. The three sat down side by side at the bar; Solita caught a glimpse of the stranger to her left as he grinned at his buddy and muttered something about “dirty girls.” She ignored it.

The bartender came around the corner and gave them a look.

“Three beers,” Royce said, not even caring to ask.

“Sure. You gotta’ way to pay for ‘em?”

There was a silence and Isabelle swore. They checked their pockets, turned them out. Isabelle spilled chunks of rock and dirt and empty brass casings which clattered on the hardwood and Solita’s finds weren’t much better. They looked at Royce with hopeful dejection, rummaging in his pants until he produced a flat rectangle of muddy brown leather and cursed fiercely with joy. He handed a smudged, dirty plastic card to the bartender and he returned it after swiping it a dozen times. A foaming pint of ice cold amber was set down in front of each of them.

“Drink up,” he said. “Folks look like you could use it.”

The drinks were gone in the very first minute. Impressed, the bartender got them another round but Solita raised her hand against hers so he gave it to Royce and Isabelle to fight over instead.

“You got a phone?” Solita asked. “I need to make a call.”

“Local?”

“Long distance.”

“Sorry,” the bartender said, “we got a pay phone but the damn thing only works for calls in-state.”

Solita frowned. “Is there any other way?”

That was when a voice to the left of her piped in, “You can use mine.”

Solita looked at the man next to her for the first time. He was wearing a wide brimmed straw cowboy hat a size too big for his head, an off-white button down dress shirt with faded jeans tucked into calf hide leather boots that hadn’t seen a single day of work. He was smiling a white, white smile; his skin was tan but distinctly not as a result of labor, and she could smell the bourbon and cheap cologne radiating from him. Solita knew the type. She worked her father’s ranch in Belize whenever she visited—the same place she’d been when the hunter’s ship came to take her—so she’d seen more than her share of actors. City boys that played cowboy to get at the lovely little farmers’ daughters.

“But it’ll cost ya a drink,” he went on to say, laying on the country accent a little too thickly.

Solita wanted nothing more than to put her military issue steel reinforced combat boots straight up his pretty little ass, but damned if she didn’t need that phone. She glanced over at Royce, knowing the two were listening. His eyes were trained on the whiskey cabinet behind the bar as if debating a change in drink, but Solita knew the look of someone intently eavesdropping. He fiddled absently with one of the empty shell casings Isabelle collected from the floor and then gave a curt nod. Solita looked back at Mr. Hat.

“What kind?” she asked, managing not to sound as overtly hostile as she felt.

He grinned. “Not for me. For you.”

Solita blinked. He ordered his “usual” and the bartender poured a concoction of tequila, vodka, and some manner of fruity mix into a martini glass over ice. The resulting drink had a cloudy blue tint to it. Mr. Hat was still grinning when she looked back at him. _You can’t be fucking serious,_ she wanted to say.

“Go on,” he murmured smoothly and gave it a nudge. “I promise it’s tasty.”

She drank it reluctantly. The instant it hit her tongue she was assaulted by the overly sweet, syrupy fruity taste drowning out the burn of the alcohol. There was another half of the glass left when Solita set it down with a crisp _clack_. Her head was already swimming from the tequila in her undernourished system; the beer hadn’t been absorbed yet but with the new concoction brewing in her gut it would only be a matter of time.

She knew this game. Guys played it with her often back in high school and in the military. He was going to get her as drunk as possible—get her nice and pliable—and then decide by how hammered she was whether he would go back on his word.

_Fucking prick,_ she seethed inwardly.

If he had _any_ idea who the fuck he was dealing with, all the shit she’d gone through in the past few days, the things she’d seen, the things she’d done, the _monster_ she killed. . . . Well, he’d probably just piss himself.

Because this was Earth, and there were no worthy hunters here. Because this wasn’t the game planet and he never spent a minute of his perfect fucking life questioning whether or not he was going to live through the night. Never knew the dull ache of pain in his chest when he looked at the man beside him and knew with every fiber of his being that one of them wasn’t going to make it through to sunrise. He would never know the cold, bitter fear that washes over you when you realize you are no longer the apex predator but the very thing that is being hunted. He didn’t know and he would never know that in those last few seconds before the blade comes down—when you’re staring death in the face and you can feel the terror, the rush, the exhilaration, and the release that comes with the knowledge of the inevitable end—just how alive you really feel.

Solita finished the final half with tight eyes and great indignation and held out her hand.

“Phone.”

He was staring her up and down mindlessly. The torn, dirty, ragged remains of what once was her best work clothes, the ratty hair, the weird bandages, and the bone daggers, axe, and mask—all of which he was pretty sure were costume props of some kind. But damn if they didn’t look real.

“What’s with the getup?” he asked. “A little early for Halloween, ain’t it?”

_“Phone,”_ Solita said again, less politely.

His grin widened. He must’ve liked his women feisty.

“Dance with me first.”

Teeth gnashed and gritted so hard her jaw bone ached.

“I don’t have time for this,” she gnarled. “I need to make a phone call.”

Perhaps it was as a result of years of a well-fed and overinflated ego, stupidity, or naivety, or even a mixture of the three that Mr. Hat lifted a soft finger to Solita’s supple lips and murmured sweetly: “One song. One song and then you can have my phone for as long as you need it, wild thing. Scout’s honor.”

Solita was too stunned to notice when her hand went numb from clenching so hard; too stunned to offer any resistance as he took her by the hand and led her away from the bar, from Isabelle and Royce; too stunned to grit her teeth or fight back or defend her own dignity as he placed a hand on her waist and guided one of hers to his shoulder and then began a slow, awkward, leisurely sway. The bar didn’t have a dance floor, just an empty spot where a pool table was removed. They were the only ones standing in the middle of that tiny space, the only ones dancing when Solita realized there was a slow song playing over the radio.

Eyes shut tightly, sucked up her pride, and forced herself into the role expected of her.

_Bear it,_ she thought. _Bear it. You’ve been through worse._

She forced her thoughts away from the man with his arm around her. Her mind and heart came into themselves, back behind the walls where it was safe. The guards came up and forced the world away, leaving her body to obey the whim of this stranger. She looked at nothing, she focused on nothing. The only thing powerful enough to breach through those defenses was the soft song that played and the sad story it told.

_I couldn't have prepared myself for this fall_   
_Shattered in pieces curled on the floor_

Even that she tried not to think about, to force her mind away from. So, she thought about the future.

She thought of her mother and all the stories she would tell her, a discourse to her struggle and how she, too, made it out alive. She would be frightened at first, forced to recall that terrible event in Guatemala that scarred her life forever, and then she would be overjoyed to know her only daughter had survived and made it home against impossible odds, surviving the attacks of not one but three hunters and on another world no less. But of course Solita would have to talk about all the help she received—just like Anna had been helped by Dutch and Billy and Ryan and all the others—from the other humans: from the convict and the Yakuza and the Russian, from Isabelle and Royce, and from . . . from. . . .

Solita’s heart lurched. She bit her lip, hands clenching absently into cool white fabric.

_Lightning don't strike_   
_The same place twice_   
_When you and I said goodbye_   
_I felt the angels cry_

She thought about her brother. Rollo, he was a helicopter pilot in the army still with a wife and a baby boy at home. Like her, he had seen as well as been in more than his share of close calls. They went through a lot together as kids. Solita, scarcely a year younger, spent most of her youth tagging along in her brother’s shadow, following along quietly whenever he went to play ball with his friends, never once asking to join in but always being invited to. He was charming and friendly and supportive, always saying how good she was even when she knew how terribly she had failed; he was a friend, her first friend, as much as family. He was mischievous and wily and they caused mayhem whenever someone wronged them or their family, but no matter how much trouble they got into or how badly things turned out he was always there to pull her to her feet and wipe away her tears. He was loyal and strong and protective, just like . . . like. . . .

A weight settled low in Solita’s stomach, thick and sickening and acidic, twisting and churning and bubbling. Her brow pressed into a hard boney shoulder, breathing in the chemical smell of cheap cologne and bourbon to chase away the rising scent of sweat, blood, smoke, and greenery.

The man murmured something into her ear that she didn’t listen to.

_We were so good together_   
_How come we could not weather_   
_This storm and just do better_   
_Why did we say goodbye_

She thought about her father. Joshua Rowen, who was known by many of his closest friends and family members as Running Wolf, was a man of great stature and wisdom beyond his years. He was the oldest of three sons and lost his father when he was a teenager, so he was forced to take on the role of head of the household early. He met her mother in 1988 when she was relocated to New Mexico to complete her psychotherapy; six months later they were married and Rollo was born shortly thereafter. The marriage lasted until summer 1997, nine years later when Anna claimed another one of “the demons” was responsible for strings of gruesome murders making headlines in Los Angeles. Her mother moved to Maine and her father retained custody of Rollo and Solita with his tribe in New Mexico. After she and her brother grew up and joined the military, he moved to Belize to start a ranch and had been there ever since.

Of all her family, Solita loved her father the most.

She respected her mother and would be forever grateful to her obsession with the hunters—the very obsession that gave her the knowledge she needed and saved her life more than once on the game planet. She would forever cherish the friendship and trust she shared with her brother, how he saw to her steady growth and protected her no matter the brutality of the battlefield they faced together.

But her love and adoration for her father was incomparable. He was her voice of calm and reason whenever her mind was clouded by the storms. He gave her hope when she saw no reason to press on, no reason to continue the fight. He was a light that guided her way down a dark and treacherous path. He was the words of wisdom whispered into her ear which calmed the rage of wind and rain and allowed her to see when most others would go blind.

Solita loved her father the most because no matter what happened to her he was always there for her to talk to. No matter the distance or the time spent apart, he was a warm pair of arms and a kiss on the head and a “Welcome home, _mija_ ,” when she didn’t want to talk about the three years she spent in Hell overseas; when she didn’t want to think about all the bullets she fired and the smell of blood in the sand and the hot sun; when she didn’t want to think about the time she watched a man she respected and loved and asked to marry her when they got home trigger an antitank mine and turn into a cloud of dust and debris and a splash of red mist right in front of her. Her father was a release from the inner turmoil: her own personal Hell that became the real world, the one she fought for, shed blood and sweat and tears for to defend and turned her into something no one else would have ever recognized.

She loved her father the most because he opened her eyes to a world that was not the one where she fought and killed her own brothers for reasons she wasn’t even sure she believed in. He brought her back from the hardship and the Hell and gave her something to focus on, something to hope for, something to believe in and to fight for. Just like . . . like. . . .

Solita’s shoulders began to shake softly as the slow, gentle sway went on. There was a warm hand on her waist, skin touching skin where the seam of her shirt had been violently ripped open. Hands clutched into the back of an unknown body, one with a sharp biting smell that she didn’t recognize. A pointed nose pressed into her hair and breathed hot and humid against her scalp.

Her heart was pounding. It was hard to breathe.

_C'mon babe can't our love be revived_   
_Bring it back and we gon' make it right_   
_I'm on the edge just tryin' to survive_   
_As the angels cry_

Why . . . ?

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him . . . ?

Why couldn’t her mind focus?

Why was he everywhere she turned—in every thought, in every feeling, every emotion? Why was he standing there in the distance, watching her from every corner? Why was he there in every breath she took—the smell of his hide; the scent of sweat and blood and exertion from combat; the fragrance of musk and sweat that clung to every muscle as they made love; and that certain tang that she could never place but knew in the very back of her mind that it was his scent, the one that only he made and nothing else could? Why was his hand in everything she touched? Why was he there in every sound she heard—the rumble in his chest that reverberated like the bass of a drum; the gravelly tone and the clack of teeth and tusks as he uttered the name he had given her, Dah’shay-ny, _Fearless_ ; and the low, low resonance of his purr when his huge, powerful, lethally clawed and gentle hands set against her hips and wove his dagger-like tusks delicately into her hair?

Why was it that even now—when she returned to the world where she was born and bred and raised to live in and love and to cherish because there was no other place in the universe that she could ever possibly belong to more—she couldn’t escape from him?

Why was it that—deep down, in every fiber of her being, in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her heart—she didn’t _want_ to escape from him?

_Baby I'm missin' you_   
_Don't allow love to lose_   
_We gotta ride it through_   
_I'm reaching for you_

So, why was it that when she looked up she did not see the man with the hat who was dancing with her? Why didn’t she see two green eyes and light brown skin and a nose and two fleshy pink lips? Why was it that when she looked up, the man she saw was not a man, but a monster?

A demon. A warrior. A hunter. 

Why did she feel his strong hands at her sides, the dense hide and quills of his shoulder beneath her hand? Why did she hear the deep, deep resonance of a contented rumble coursing through his chest? Why did she smell that scent that could only ever be his? And why did she see the glow of amber that shone from his eyes whenever he looked at her?

_Her_ demon.

Why was it so hard to stand? Why did it hurt to breathe? Why did her eyes sting and blur the longer she stared into those beautiful golden eyes?

_Her_ warrior.

Why did her heart suddenly feel so heavy? Why did it stutter and ache the longer she looked at him? Why did she remember that look of sorrow and regret in his eyes when she turned away from him for the last time? When she left him standing there alone on that ship. . . .

_Her_ hunter.

_Her. . . ._

_Oh, God. . . ._

“Thorn. . . .”

_Lightning don't strike_   
_The same place twice_   
_When you and I said goodbye_   
_I felt the angels cry_

Solita lifted up slowly onto her toes as he came down to meet her, hands twisting and tightening in the fabric on his back.

The song faded to an end and she turned.

Soft lips grazed her ear as her hand slid down and plucked hard plastic from his back pocket. Body twisted out from under this strange alien’s hold and disappeared through the swinging door of the ladies’ room.

Solita shut the handicap stall with a slam of the lock and fell into the farthest corner behind the white porcelain toilet. Everything was shaking. Her legs, her hands, her lungs, her spine, her . . . _everything_. She swallowed hard and breathed out slowly once, breathed in even slower, and repeated it several times until the shivering eased and she stared at the gray-white tile floor. Head set into the hard white plaster and stared at the phone’s glowing touch screen. Stared at it like it was something she’d never seen before, a foreign device of neither use nor significance and could in no way help her with what she had to do, what she _needed_ to do.

Her fingers moved mechanically, quaking and trembling as they absently keyed in the very first number that came to mind. It found its way to her ear. Her stomach twisted and turned. A cold sweat flushed along her back and dampened her palms when it began to ring.

She shuddered and shook. Clinging to sanity and reason like a tattered leaf in a raging thunderstorm.

“Oh, God, please don’t pick up. . . .” she murmured pathetically, unable to concentrate on anything but the sting in her eyes and the pounding in her head.

Her heart was racing. Hands and feet were ice cold and aching. It hurt to breathe. It was hard to see.

The phone rang four times and then clicked.

A deep, gravelly voice answered, _“Rowen residence.”_

Her voice cracked. “Dad. . . .”

_“Mija!”_

Solita couldn’t take it any longer. When the tears finally hit, she just couldn’t stop them. She cried.

\----------

“She’s better off,” Royce murmured, glancing occasionally at Solita dancing with Mr. Hat through his peripherals.

It was an awkward, listless, one-sided dance—and that at best. He didn’t blame her. He couldn’t resist his pang of resentment for the man, either. The girl had been through a lot, more than him and Izzy considering her capture by those sadist monsters. He didn’t envy her, but he damn well knew she deserved better than to be forced to humiliate herself by dancing with that shit-licker just to make a goddamned phone call.

It was insult to injury and it was fucking inexcusable. 

Royce made a mental note to kick his ass before they left.

Isabelle made a sound. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.”

He felt her eyes on him and imagined the look she was giving him.

He clarified, “I meant here. She’s better off _here_ , not with that.” He inclined his head at the ass-hat with his arm around her. He took another swig of beer, impatient for the affects to kick in. Then he added a little quieter, “Being here is better than the alternative.”

“You don’t know that,” Isabelle said again.

Royce set his beer down and finally looked at Isabelle. She was wetting her fingers with the condensation on the cold glass; the amber fluid was almost gone and there was foam sliding down the inside. She was watching it thoughtfully as if looking for patterns.

He cocked a brow and waited for her to go on.

“You never saw the way she looked whenever she talked about him,” she mumbled. “She was so confused, but at the same time I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look more alive. And then. . . .” Her brows knitted in the middle and she didn’t continue for a moment, lifting her hands away to smear the cold moisture between her fingertips. “That look in his eyes . . . when she left.” She lifted the glass to her lips and murmured so her words echoed faintly, “I’ve seen that look before, Royce. You can’t fake that kind of pain.”

“That _thing_ ,” he clarified pointedly, “isn’t human. I don’t know about you but I’m a firm believer in sticking to my own species.” He raised his glass again. “She’s better off with one of her own kind.”

“You don’t know that.”

Royce set the glass down with a firm _clack_ and narrowed his eyes at her. Irately, “Jesus Christ, Izzy, a blind man can see that thing isn’t exactly the kind of company an intelligent and right-minded person _wants_ to keep. Why the fuck do you keep saying that?”

Isabelle glowered and said through her teeth as she pointed, “Because look at her, Royce. Does that look like she’s better off to you?”

“I know, Izzy, I know, but in the long run she—”

“In the long run she’ll spend the rest of her life looking back on today and she’ll ask herself the same fucking question over and over. ‘What if,’ Royce? ‘What if’? Do you know what it’s like to have a regret like that? The kind that haunts you for the rest of your life and makes you spend the rest of your days wondering whether you really made the right choice?”

“Are you saying you think she should go back? After all the shit she went through to come here, you think she should give that up on a whim?” Isabelle caught herself and looked away. Royce went on, slightly softer, “The girl’s got a life here, Izzy, just like us. She’s got shit to do, things to look forward to. Hell, maybe she’s even got a guy waiting for her.” His expression dropped slightly and he brought the glass back up to his lips. He muttered on a different key, “Don’t know how she’s gonna’ explain that one, though. . . .”

“This is serious, Royce.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

Tense, awkward silence settled in between them. The bartender stopped in and refilled their drinks. A long moment passed and then Royce spoke again.

“I do, by the way,” he mumbled. Isabelle looked at him. His eyes were downcast but they were earnest and sincere. “I do know what ‘what if’ feels like, Isabelle, believe it or not. It fucking sucks, yeah, but I can live with mine. Look, I know what you’re talking about, okay? I’ve been seeing it too. Seeing may mean believing but that doesn’t constitute for understanding.” His brows pursed in the center and he stared at his glass, twisting his mouth like he tasted something sour. “Just because I know what was going on doesn’t mean I have to agree with it, that’s all it is.”

“Then why?”

“Because it’s—” He chewed on his cheeks and glowered at the glass. “Because it’s just fucking _weird_ , okay? Get off my back, Izzy, damn.”

Isabelle smiled faintly as Royce’s face turned an awkward color.

“Besides,” he went on, “there’s not much we can do about it now. He’s probably already gone.”

The change in pronoun didn’t go unnoticed and, admittedly, it surprised Isabelle.

“You really think that?”

“Why would he bother to stay? We’re lucky he kept his word and brought us back in the first place. Unless it’s to kill something he’s got no business sticking around.” He glanced at her in his peripherals. There was a disconcerting look on her face. “Why? You don’t think she’d try to go back, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Isabelle said. She looked at the glass again. “Maybe. . . . I wouldn’t put it past her to try, I guess.”

“If she’s smart, she won’t. Why would she anyway? I mean, c’mon, I know they had a fling going on (she was oh so gracious enough to let us know about it) but you don’t really think she . . . you know.” He murmured quietly, “You don’t think she had _feelings_ for him, do you?”

Isabelle shook her head. “I’m not sure. I wouldn’t call it love, but there was something going on. There was definitely something there.”

Isabelle’s eyes lifted up and snapped wide all of a sudden. Royce quickly turned to see Mr. Hat dip his head down toward Solita. An impulsive surge jolted through his muscles and nearly stood up until the girl turned suddenly, slipped the phone out of Mr. Hat’s back pocket and darted into the women’s bathroom right before the move completed. For a second Royce gleamed at the impressive maneuver, and then with a flash of intuition he put his arm out and caught Isabelle just as she started to move.

“Let go of me, Royce.”

“She doesn’t need your help right now.” His voice was not harsh or forceful but at the same time the calm seriousness could not be belittled.

“She’s in pain.”

“I know, and that’s exactly why helping her right now won’t fix anything.”

Royce looked up and the two stared intensely at one another. Their eyes were dark and conflicting, both wanting the best for the person who had saved their lives but with contradictory views on just how to do so.

He went on sincerely, “Right now what she needs is a catharsis, not someone to hold her hand. She’s had it harder than the rest of us. Give her some space.” He tugged Isabelle’s waist gently because her eyes looked torn. “This is something she has to do on her own, Izzy. Trust me.”

Isabelle returned to her beer without a word and the bartender came back around to check on them again.

Royce looked up at him and said with a very distinct change in tone, “I’m not paying for that guy’s drink by the way.”

The bartender laughed.

“Don’t worry, guy, I already put it on his tab.” He leaned in close and raised his hand to keep Mr. Hat’s buddy, who was still sitting at the other end of the bar, from eavesdropping. “I can put your guys’ round on his tab, too, if ya’d like.”

Royce and Isabelle smiled.

“Good man,” Royce said with a curt nod.

The bartender collected the empties and picked up a few other stacks from behind the counter and began to clean them with soap and water.

Royce took another drink from his beer and then asked, “What can you tell me about him?”

Bartender looked over his shoulder. “Him? Ah, well, he’s a city slicker for one and he fancies himself a bit of a ladies’ man in these parts. Thinks the local gals don’t get out enough and it’s his God given duty to teach ‘em the ‘ways o’ the world’ or some bullshit like that.” He set some glasses down when they were sufficiently clean and went on. “He comes around here ‘bout every week or so with a buddy; they buy some drinks and have a chat until some pretty little dame walks in and that’s when he gets his game face on and he ain’t content until he gets her nice and saucy and then he can walk right out the door with ‘er.” He looked playfully at Isabelle, “And her lady friend, too.”

Isabelle blanched.

“He’s not local?”

“Nope.”

Royce leaned back and Isabelle thought she could see the gears turning in his head.

He added as if on a completely separate note, “Then he wouldn’t be missed in a place like this.”

At that, the bartender stopped and gave Royce a very pointed stare.

“Now you listen here, guy, granted he ain’t the nicest fella when it comes to the ladies but that ain’t no reason to be startin’ trouble or nothin’. You hear me?”

“Don’t worry,” Royce placated with one hand partly raised. “I don’t plan on _starting_ anything—provided he doesn’t give me a reason to.”

Isabelle knew better though. She knew how Royce had been itching for something to lay his fist into ever since Mr. Hat started putting eyes on Solita. Granted it wasn’t because he thought she needed protection and certainly not that he felt it was his duty to defend her, he just wasn’t the type to sit by as a guy like that took advantage of a woman. Let alone one he knew and came to respect. He did, however, feel obligated to repay her; it was because of Solita they were home. Had she not gone through so much and fought as hard as she did, had she not made that alliance with the hunter and then convinced him to let them tag along for the ride home, Royce knew (while he didn’t necessarily want to admit it) that this time back on the game planet they would probably already be dead.

He’d be damned before he let someone he owed his life to be exploited by a scrawny little shit-stain he could break over his knee.

Royce and Isabelle both pretended not to notice when Mr. Hat returned to the bar and slid into his seat with nothing but an empty barstool between himself and Isabelle.

“What’s with your lady friend?” he asked coolly. “Acts like she’s never been with a man in all her life.”

_If you could call yourself a man,_ Royce managed not to say.

“She’s had it rough the past few days,” was all Isabelle muttered, eyes trained to the dew accumulating on her fingertips.

“Issues, huh?” He didn’t sound too interested. He must have thought of something though because he grinned a little wider and tried (and failed) to sound concerned. “Hope it’s not daddy issues. I hear those can be the worst kind.”

Royce felt something in his gut tighten and he resisted the impulse to get to his feet and bash the man’s brains in against the bar counter. Probably the only thing that stopped him was the knowledge this was no longer a hostile environment and not a life-or-death struggle to survive. That and the pleading look Isabelle gave him from the corner of her eye.

“I don’t believe it is,” Royce said, voice riddled with a not-so-subtle undertone of repressed violence.

Mr. Hat frowned. Then he trained his beady green eyes on Isabelle and Royce prayed for him to make a move. To give him an excuse.

“What about you, sweet thing?” he asked with a smile, teeth bleach white and perfectly straight and square. Royce would much rather see them chipped and bloodied.

Isabelle didn’t say anything, feeling just as sick and itching to punch something but leaning more toward the disgusted side than Royce’s need for violence. She didn’t even look at Mr. Hat, but it didn’t make a difference.

He was still smiling. “Silent type, huh? Cute.”

At that point, Royce decided he had enough. Without hesitation, he reached around and laid his arm across Isabelle’s shoulders. He and Mr. Hat made and held eye contact for a full and counted four seconds where Royce let the knowledge sink in that she was not to be toyed with. It simultaneously relieved and perplexed him when Isabelle didn’t try to resist and instead went along with it, going so far as to take hold of one of his fingers. They made fleeting eye contact.

Mr. Hat immediately lifted his hands in smiling, halfhearted defeat and casually leaned away.

“All right, all right, I see what’s goin’ on,” he said and not with the slightest hint of sincerity. “My apologies, sir, I didn’t know the lady was spoken for. I’ll behave. Scout’s honor.”

They didn’t believe a single goddamn word of it.

“Your lady friend seems to be a different matter entirely, though.” Mr. Hat folded his hands over the counter and told the bartender to bring him another glass of bourbon. “If she does just so happen to need a shoulder to cry on by any chance, I’d be more than happy to do the honors. Gal like that needs a man that can take of ‘er. That is, unless she’s already got a beau she ain’t threatened me with, yet—which doesn’t seem to be the case.”

His smile widened at that last part.

Isabelle hooked her finger into Royce’s and he watched her turn her head. By the way Mr. Hat’s expression suddenly flattened and paled, Royce knew that if looks could kill Isabelle had already put him six feet under.

With no small degree of venom, Isabelle uttered, “Yes, actually. I’m pretty sure she does.”

\----------

“I’m sorry,” Solita choked as soon as she could find her voice again, sniffing wetly and pressing wads of toilet paper into her eyes.

She felt a little better after letting that emotional overload out. She was out of tears by time she calmed but she felt unimaginably guilty for having broken down at the first sound of her father’s voice. She was just so happy to hear him again.

There was still a little nausea churning in her stomach. Maybe it was from the drinks. Maybe it was vertigo from being back on Earth. Maybe it was from remembering . . . him. . . .

_“It’s all right, mija,”_ the voice on the other end of the line said. Soft and calm and husky and deep. _“Where are you? Are you well?”_

_Terrible. If you could see me now you’d have a heart attack._

“Considering the circumstances I think I’m actually doing pretty good.” Solita sniffed and patted her eyes with the damp tissue paper and wiped her nose before dropping it into the toilet bowl with the others. She hiked her knees against her chest and pressed into the corner, craving whatever kind of security she could find. “As for where I am,” she felt suddenly compelled to laugh, but all she managed was a winded huff into the mouthpiece and a solemn smile, “I . . . I’m calling you from a guy’s phone at a bar . . . I think in Colorado.”

He was shocked. _“Colorado? Mija, how on Earth did you get to the United States? You left your passport and your money and everything. How did you even make it across the border?”_ There was a short silence and then he said a little quieter, _“If you wanted to go back to the US, you could have just said so, mija. You didn’t have to run away.”_

“Oh God, dad, no. Believe me, I didn’t run away, I. . . .” She stopped and thought hard about her words. Knowing she couldn’t explain everything, she needed to be careful. “I can’t really go into detail over the phone. I’ll tell you everything next time I see you.”

It felt so wonderful to say that. Next time. Like the promise of a future, one where there was no uncertainty, no questioning whether or not surviving would be enough. It was simple, real. Something to hold onto.

Those words had just as big an effect on her father, too, it seemed. Though she couldn’t see him, Solita could feel the relief radiating from the other end of the line. She could hear it in his voice.

_“I’ve been so worried about you,”_ he confessed. _“When you disappeared, I feared the worst. I know you like to visit the cliffs by the gulf. When you didn’t come back from your walk, I thought you might have. . . .”_ He didn’t finish it but Solita didn’t have to hear his words to know how afraid he had been. Afraid for her.

Her father, afraid. Now that was a thought. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He simply wasn’t the type for it. In all her life, Solita had never seen her father get scared. Not once. Not when she was young and a coyote snuck into the backyard one night where she and Rollo were camping. Not when they visited her mother in Maine one Christmas and the car hit a patch of black ice on the Interstate and almost flipped before skidding into the median. Not even when she graduated high school and she and Rollo came back one day with their enlistment papers and said so proudly that they’d be off to training in a month. 

Solita thought about all those times when her father had been so strong, but now that she looked back she realized he must have been afraid. Only he chose not to show it because he knew he needed to be strong for his family. His family was his strength. They kept him calm and helped guide him through the hard times. When the hunters took her, they took a part of that strength away from him. She couldn’t forgive them for that. For having hurt her father in such a way.

“I’m sorry, dad,” she muttered. Her voice got shaky again. She pulled another line of paper from the roll and dabbed her eyes in it, determined not to break down a second time. To keep strong for him just as he kept strong for her all these years.

“I . . . I missed you so much. I’m so sorry I couldn’t call you sooner. I would have if I could, but I. . . . I was . . . tied down in what was going on.”

But he was not upset. He was calm and his voice was soothing, wrapping around her like a warm pair of arms. _“It’s all right, mija,”_ he said. _“You’re safe now and that’s all that matters. Where on Earth have you been, though?”_

She thought about telling the truth. She honest to God did. She didn’t want to lie to her father. He deserved to know the truth, but she also knew that right now the truth could only hurt him.

She wanted to say:

Not on Earth, dad. Not even close. Not even this solar system. On a planetary game preserve where I was hunted like an animal and nearly slaughtered several times. Oh, and you remember the monsters mom used to obsess over? Yeah, they’re real. Who knew? They’re the ones that took me there. That’s why I disappeared. And not just me, a ton of other people, too. They’ve been capturing dangerous people for centuries—maybe more—and take them there to hunt as trophies. Apparently they thought I was tough enough to be worthy of being hunted. Go figure, right? How did I make it back? I made a deal with one of the monsters that got captured by the one’s hunting us—same race, different species I guess. He saved me and brought me and two other survivors home. They’re not all monsters, dad. He was tough and noble and honorable and he saved my life back there. I’d be dead without him, dad. I even slept with him, that’s how much I liked him—and how much he liked me. . . . Dad, I think I . . . I think I. . . .

She stopped the thought there. Her stomach twisted and her heartbeat stuttered. It got a little harder to keep her breathing even.

She murmured weakly, “It’s a long story. . . .”

The next few minutes passed in silence as she managed to steel herself again and put the wall up between her and her feelings. Why did it suddenly become so difficult to keep it up?

_“Mija,”_ her father began softly again, _“are you sure you’re all right?”_

“I’ll be okay. I just need some rest.”

But Solita knew it was a lie and it hurt. She didn’t want to lie to him. It was bad enough she couldn’t tell him the truth about everything. She wanted so badly to just let it all out, but she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t put that burden on him; to force him to question his own daughter’s sanity so soon after getting her back, just as he was forced to question her mother’s. She put him through enough already. She couldn’t do it again.

And yet Solita could still sense that he was not convinced. They knew each other too well to not know when something wasn’t right, when secrets were being kept. She had to tell him more. She had to. She owed it to him.

She murmured into the mouth piece quietly, “I met a guy. . . .”

There was a twinge of something indescribable in the bottom of her stomach. Something aching and unpleasant, but not quite as painful as expected.

His voice picked up with a hint of relief but also slight uncertainty. _“You did?”_

“Mh, hm.”

_“What is he like?”_

“He’s . . . he’s strong, cunning and intelligent. He’s protective but a little headstrong, and sometimes it’s hard to get through to him.” _He’s not human, you know, so there’s a bit of a culture barrier._ “But he’s noble and chivalrous and he’s not afraid to fight for what he believes in. He’s passionate but thoughtful and honest, dedicated and ambitious; whenever he starts something he sees it through no matter what. And he . . . he fought for me; he protected me when I. . . . I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. . . .” Her voice began to strain and she didn’t go on.

_“I’d like to speak with this man.”_ Solita could almost hear the smile on her father’s face.

Her shoulders tensed and something in her core tightened.

She sounded absolutely miserable. “I had to leave him. . . .”

_“Mija, why? He sounds like—”_

“We were too different. You wouldn’t have approved,” she interrupted, suddenly feeling guilty for cutting him off but she ignored it and went on. Her words came too quickly, not taking enough time to think about them before they came out. “It wouldn’t have worked out. There were worlds between us. A-and I had no reason to stay. He promised he would help us, get us home and then that was it. I couldn’t stay. I had no reason to.”

_“Is that true?”_

“W-well, yes!”

She didn’t mean for it to sound so forceful, but then again she didn’t mean to stutter either. She didn’t mean to push the topic and she didn’t mean to feel so goddamned guilty about everything little fucking detail all of a sudden.

Why . . . ? Why did she feel so guilty? Why? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

“I had to leave,” she said again, quietly now, barely a whisper as her arm curled around her middle and knees tucked in close. “If I’d stayed with him, I. . . . Dad, I . . . I could never come home. . . . I could never see you or mom or Rollo again. . . .”

His words were gentle. _“Would he not let you?”_

“No, I’m sure he would, but. . . . It’s complicated. . . . We would be worlds away. . . .”

She never thought of it so literally before. It was terrifying.

“It would never have worked out between us. . . . We’re too different. . . .”

_“Are you trying to convince me of that or yourself?”_

Solita didn’t understand at first. Of course she was telling him that, there was no one else she was talking to. Why the hell would she be—?

And then it hit her. Maybe she really wasn’t saying it for her dad. Maybe she was saying it just to hear it. To convince herself that it was true through repetition. They say that if you say something for long enough or so many times you either become convinced of it or it loses its meaning entirely. Subconsciously, her mind must have hoped for the former. Her mind had. But what of her heart?

“I—”

She tried to think. She couldn’t formulate a response. It was so hard to think, to focus, to concentrate. Her thoughts began to glaze.

Was the alcohol catching up to her? Or was the haze finally clearing?

_What is it?_

Her head hurt. Her heart was racing.

_Why do I need to convince myself?_ she thought. _If it’s true, then what does it matter? What difference does it make unless I—_

She stopped.

Don’t finish that thought, something said.

Do it. Finish it. You have to know, something else whispered.

_Unless I—_

Don’t do it. You’ll regret it.

Do it. Please. You must or you’ll never know.

_Unless . . . I—_

Stop. No!

It’s all right. Don’t fight it. Let it flow.

_Unless, I . . . I love him. . . ._

The storm clouds cleared and the world came rushing back into perspective.

She knew where she was. She was huddled in the corner of a bathroom stall in a bar in North America and Royce and Isabelle were there outside—waiting for her. The air was cold and it smelled like lemon-scented chemicals and cleaner. The tile was hard and dank and there were wads of tear stained toilet paper in the bowl beside her. Someone else’s phone was in her hand, shaking, and on the other line she could hear her father’s deep raspy breaths ghosting quietly against the receiver, patient and wary and knowing in his silence.

She knew who she was. She was Solita Aquila Rowen, twenty-three years old, ex-Military rifleman, and once self-proclaimed jack-of-all-trades. She was the younger of two siblings with an older brother, Rollo, and was the only daughter of Joshua “Running Wolf” Rowen and Anna Gonsalves.

She knew what she was. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend, an aunt. She was a fighter as much as a lover. She was a soldier, a scrapper, a brawler. But she was also a hunter.

Solita knew what it took and how it felt to fight and survive until the sunrise even with all the odds against her. She had done it all her life and never realized it until now. It took staring death in the face to open her eyes, and now that they were everything was so much clearer. She saw things now for what they truly were, raw and unadulterated. No second guesses, no alternate endings. Just the crude, carnal, and simple reality of the world.

She was a predator. A warrior. A hunter.

She was. . . .

_Fearless._

“I’m sorry, dad.”

_“It’s all right, mija.”_

“If I do this, dad, I may never see you again. You realize that.”

_“I know. But, mija, I am not worried. I raised you to be strong so that you could stand on your own feet someday. Someday when you no longer needed my guidance and when you could at last be free. If that day is today then I am glad to know I could hear your voice one last time before you started your journey on alone.”_

Solita smiled softly. “But I won’t be alone. I’ll have you with me in my heart—guiding me wherever I may fly.”

She heard him take a deep breath in order to keep composed.

_“My beautiful bird has finally become an eagle,”_ he said. There was so much happiness and pride in his voice. _“I am so proud of you, mija.”_

Solita could feel the emotions in him. Through the distance, she could feel him in her heart, his joy as much as his sorrow, but also his love. Especially his love. It wrapped warm around her heart like protecting arms and Solita knew that no matter how great the distance or the time she would spend away, this wasn’t really goodbye. The words were there, waiting to be read in-between the lines.

_See ya later._

“I love you, papa,” she whispered.

For the first time in a long time, the tears in her eyes and the swelling in her chest was not sadness, but happiness. So much happiness.

_“I love you, too, mija.”_

“Give Rollo and his family my best. And, if you get the chance, tell mom I said thank you—and that she was right, about everything. She’ll understand.”

_“I will.”_

Solita closed her eyes as a single tear slid down her cheek. She did not reach to wipe it away. She let it stay. Let it linger. Let it delve deep and wash across her memories so she would never, ever forget this moment.

“I’ll miss you.”

_“And I will miss you, my beautiful Soaring Eagle.”_

She smiled softly. “Fearless, dad. Fearless.”

_“Fearless? Fearless Eagle.”_ She could hear his smile and she could see it in her mind. It was such a wonderful thing. _“Yes. That is much more fitting, I believe. Take care of yourself, mija. Don’t just trust your friend to do it for you.”_

She laughed quietly. It felt so amazing. “I’m confident we can take care of ourselves, dad. But thanks anyway.”

_“I love you so much, mija.”_

“I love you, too, dad. Goodbye.”

_“Goodbye.”_

The silence lingered as the line stayed connected for a few seconds longer, just long enough for Solita and her father to listen to each other breathe one last time. Just long enough for one final breath to pass life across the distance and the world in-between them.

Solita stood and walked out of the stall. She didn’t stop to fix herself or clean the moisture from her face or worry for the red of tears in her eyes. She didn’t because she didn’t want to. Because she knew there was no time to dawdle and no time for little pleasantries. She had a ship to catch.

Isabelle and Royce were still sitting at the bar, his arm wound tight around her shoulders as if in defense of a nearby foe. Solita knew who. Mr. Hat leaned casually into the counter with his hands on a cold glass of bourbon and his gaze trained on Isabelle.

Her boots hit the ground and stopped.

“Hey.” Her voice was firm, steady, and resolved.

Three heads whisked around. Two pairs of eyes widened knowingly in awe. The third looked casual and (ignorantly) not the least bit surprised or concerned. He opened his mouth—

“You have something I need,” Solita interrupted before he could even start.

Her hand shot out. Fingers latched onto a false brown leather belt and jerked Mr. Hat sharply to his feet.

“Hey, hey, hey, easy there now, sugar-plum,” he said sweetly, hands up partly in surrender, the other part ready to put his arms around her. She did, after all, look so emotional and vulnerable right now. “Sure, I got whatever you need, baby. I got everything you need an’ mo—”

The words stopped when her knee came up quick and hard and stopped dead in the soft fork between his legs. An indescribable husk of guttural noise left him and he fell forward to hold himself. Solita grabbed a fistful of scraggly brown locks, tore holes into the shitty four-dollar straw hat and connected his face with the same knee twice as hard. He fell back onto his stool, dazed and delirious and groaning with two lines of red blood running from a crooked nose. Lastly, Solita swung with full momentum and buried her fist in his jaw. Something popped and his head hit the bar counter with a wicked _thunk_ and slumped to the floor. His friend, too stunned to do anything but gape in awe and terror, sat there and shook.

“I ain’t pickin’ that up,” the bartender muttered.

With a jingle of keys snatched from Mr. Hat’s pocket, Solita disappeared beneath the flickering red exit lights. Royce and Isabelle snatched up their things and raced out after her.

“Solita!” Isabelle called out.

They caught up just as she clicked a button on the key remote. Lights flashed to their right and Solita’s eyes lit up at the sight of her ride before turning to meet them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Royce said, slightly upheaved but inwardly not the least bit surprised by her actions.

“I’m going back,” she said. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of uncertainty in those words.

“You-you—You what? You _are_? Are you fucking serious? _Why?_ ”

“I have to. I can’t stay. Earth . . . isn’t my home anymore.”

Royce was flustered and stammering and not quite able to cohesively word his thoughts because of the alcohol.

“You’re really going to go back?” Isabelle asked, not nearly as taken aback as Royce. She seemed only mildly surprised, and more at the reality of the decision than the choice itself.

“Yes.”

Isabelle’s expression softened. She stepped forward and put her arms around Solita and held her tight. For three seconds, the two embraced in quiet confirmation and acknowledgement of their thoughts for one another, what the other was: fellow soldier, fighter, woman, survivor, and friend.

“Be careful out there,” Isabelle said as they released. “With him.”

Solita smiled. “No promises.” She looked at Royce and she pointed between his eyes. “And you. You’re a complete fucking asshole for all the things you said before. I could kick your ass for what you said about me and my mother.” She dropped the arm back and the three of them stared at each other. The hostility was gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced with sincerity, “But I forgive you, I respect you, and I understand. We all saved each other’s asses back on that planet, so, Royce, Isabelle, if our paths should ever cross again, don’t worry, I’ll keep you off the hit list.”

They smiled, grateful as much as humored. “Thanks,” they said.

“Take care of yourselves. Both of you.”

“You, too, Solita,” Isabelle said.

“Watch your back.”

With that, Solita sprinted into the parking lot. She opened the door of her glistening new ride and slid down into the cool black leather seating. It started, not with a purr, but with a deep and resonant growl. Between the vibrant emerald glow of the dashboard and the stereo system and the luscious black interior, she thought momentarily what a shame it was she wouldn’t be keeping it. A beast this beautiful deserved a better master.

Gears slid smoothly into place as the ignition purred in ecstasy and, on command, the subwoofers roared to life and rocked her every fiber with the heavy bass of a song that seemed all too fitting.

_I’m on the frontline_   
_Don’t worry, I’ll be fine_   
_The story is just beginning_   
_I say goodbye to my weakness_   
_So long to the regret_   
_And now I see the world through diamond eyes_

Solita punched the gas and like a poison green bullet, the Jaguar XKR skidded fluidly around the corner with a vicious shriek of rubber tires and disappeared down the valley road with tail lights shining like eyes in the darkness and a fury of trailing roars.

It took scarcely eight minutes of driving in the triple-digits for Solita to reach a familiar stretch of road with a hill trailing up in the distance. A toppled pine came into view on the side and she pulled the car to a soundless halt and lurched. Slamming the parking break on and dropping the keys and the cell phone onto the front seat, Solita stumbled hastily out onto the embankment, nearing falling when her boot caught in a hole but regained her footing in less than a second and sprinted blindly into the blackness of the tree line.

She never once stopped to consider the wild animals that would be out. She never considered the idea she could get lost in the darkness and wander aimlessly, maybe for days. It didn’t matter because this was something she had to do. She had to know. She had to try.

All she could think of was, _God, please, don’t let it be too late._

The forest was frigid and dark. It sapped the energy from her limbs and made her joints ache. Fingers numbed and cheeks burned from the wet cold; she could see vapors puffing with each labored breath, obscuring what little vision she had. Only cracks and slivers of pale moonlight made it through the breaks in the thick, towering pines overhead. It was sheer foreboding darkness, but Solita never stopped running.

_Please,_ she thought, _please, Thorn, tell me you waited. Please, God, let him still be there._

Heartbeat hammering in her ears, feet pounding as she raced across the forest floor, dodging tree trucks and bounding over low bushes and paying no mind to the pull of sticky strings when she passed through a spider’s web, Solita kept running. In her rush, she didn’t see the twisted branch on the toppled pine when she leapt over it; it caught in her pant leg and tore and sent her rolling painfully over the hard ground. But it was reassuring; she had fallen over the same tree once before earlier that day. With a new ache in her left wrist and elbow and the sting of pulled stitches in her side, Solita gnashed her teeth and rolled right back to her feet and kept running.

Minutes later she heard it. Over frantic breaths and a pounding heart, she heard it: the distinct hum of roaring turbines. Rush and adrenaline shot her like a bullet. She pushed harder, faster, faster until her feet felt light on the ground. The blue-white glow illuminated through the trees and a rush of warm air hit her.

_Wait for me, Thorn. Wait for me._

Solita burst into the clearing and stopped dead in her tracks.

_No. . . ._

The ship was already lifting off the ground. Climbing up vertically from the landing zone in a slow, gradual rise, the gale of winds scattered debris in every direction but Solita could not look away.

Knees gave out beneath her.

_No. . . ._

Her heart felt sick. Breathing was ragged and strained and lungs ached with the force of every winded breath. Her stomach turned. She felt sick. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.

Hands shaking, she reached out.

_Thorn, no. . . . Stop. . . . Come back. . . ._

Her mouth moved but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even breathe.

_God, please. . . . Don’t let me watch him go. . . ._

Her legs were like lead weights underneath her: solid and immovable. Paralyzed.

_Come back. . . ._

Eyes stung and vision blurred. Ears rang with muted roaring. Skin was icy and numb, twitching with a pounding heart and still-rushing adrenaline, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move.

_No. . . ._

Breathing came quick, ragged and shallow. Inhaling sharp and shoulders trembling. Chest ached and heaved. Every fiber shook and shuddered. Hands lifted mindlessly and curled agonizingly into the numb roots of her hair. Shaking and shuddering, hyperventilating with the burning cold and the desperation, breathing in hard and fast and almost not letting any of it out.

Solita grabbed her head as the tears streamed down and her lungs filled to the brim with ice cold air.

She screamed.

\----------

The animal carcass hit the ground with a heavy _thunk_ on the hard metal grating. It wasn’t much, but it was something. His hunt on the game planet was fruitless because of his capture, but he’d be damned before he returned to the clanship empty-handed. He made such a spectacle out of going to the game planet to begin with; the others would never let him live it down if he came back with nothing to show for it.

Thorn pealed off the remains of his armor and the few spare pieces he found in a storage room on the ship, not caring that they clattered to the ground noisily wherever they fell and didn’t bother to pick them up. His old master would have his hide for abusing his _awu’asa_ in such a manner, but Thorn didn’t care. At this point, he figured he was entitled not to care. Not about his armor, not about anything. Nothing but the hunt and the sting in his chest.

It was caring about something that got him into this mess in the first place. He wasn’t about to allow for a repeat in history.

He dragged the carcass to the cleaning room where he skinned and gutted it, put some of the useless organs in a bin to be disposed of and the meat and other organs into containers to be preserved as food and materials for later. He tore out the claws and removed the head and spine, cleaning and treating the bones before bleaching them in an acid bath and then set them out to dry. He did the same with the pelt, treated the dark fur and fleshy underside and then stretched it out to cure with time. It would be good for bedding.

Throughout the time it took to do this, he trained his gaze specifically away from his right wrist—and the adornment tied to it. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to care about it, because with each subtle glance of it in his peripherals he was reminded of what it was, what it meant, and who gave it to him.

_Get rid of it,_ a small part of him said. _It’s not a trophy. You don’t need the reminder._

He looked at it and the sting that dulled during the hunt returned in full. It was a pain he couldn’t fully describe. Duller than a knife but sharper than a burn, not centered in any one specific area but encompassing a larger one, not on the surface but somewhere inside that he couldn’t place. It could have been something he’d eaten or an infection beginning to manifest, but something subtle and equally as indescribable hinted otherwise.

He touched it lightly with a claw nudging between two of the braids, parting them ever so slightly, and then watched them settle back together when he lifted away. It was a small thing, simple and unimpressive at a glance, but still sturdy and resilient—admirably so.

_Like her. . . ._

Thorn’s tusks met with a clack and he got up. He emptied out the bin of unusable parts and got to work draining the blood and cleaning the rest of the meat and organs. He had to stay busy, had to keep his mind from wandering. If he didn’t, there would be nothing keeping his thoughts from trailing back, and he didn’t want that right now—or ever.

After salting and setting the eatables out to dry, he cleaned and stretched the intestines last and let them hang from some hooks to cure; it’d make for good a leather cord or rope when it was done. There was always use for raw materials. He went back and collected his tools and started to clean them, and as he did he was forced to look at the object and the physical manifestation of his discontent yet again.

_Get rid of it,_ that part said again.

He dried off the tools and his hands and returned to gather up the extra bones and claws. He found a place for them in a storage room, confident he could make use of them in the future. If not, there were always bone carvers looking for mediums to do their work or merchants who could make them into adornments.

_Get rid of it. Make it a clean cut. No scars. No reminders._

Thorn stopped in the middle of the corridor and snarled at nothing, glared at nothing. Teeth and tusks ground together and fists clenched until claws dug into his palms.

_There is no such thing as a clean cut,_ he reminded himself. _All wounds leave scars, even if they cannot be seen._

He went into the medbay and checked to make sure all the equipment was still secure. There was a scent that had never been in there before. It wasn’t a yautja’s. It was lighter, distinct, foreign and yet very familiar. It was her scent. It still permeated many parts of the ship. It would take weeks for it to fade, maybe even months in some places.

Back in the corridor, tusks twitched and growled lowly until his gaze lowered onto the floor.

What was he thinking? Asking her to stay like that. He must have been out of his _pauk-de_ mind.

He did his duty. He brought her and the other two humans home. He kept his promise, proven himself trustworthy and regained the honor he lost in captivity. There was nothing more to do.

So why did he ask her to stay?

He saw her as a hunter, that was why. She wasn’t a measly little human, one to be hunted for sport like all the others. She was a hunter, born and bred, and proved it during combat. He wanted her to see it the way he did, wanted her to know she was worthy of the hunt and of the title he gave her, that she deserved better than whatever mundane existence awaited her back on her home world.

He asked her to stay because he wanted her to see that. He wanted her to see her true worth. To know how much she could be valued in the world of the hunter and how much she already was in his own.

The thought caught him by surprise.

_His_ world?

What was “his world”?

What did he mean by that? It was a strange thought. His world had always just been about the hunt. It was that way for all yautjas. The hunt was what they lived, fought, and died for. Mothers bred only with the strongest males to ensure their young would be best suited for the hunt. It was their purpose, their meaning. Why did _his_ world suddenly sound different from that? Separate, like something else entirely.

Thorn growled, thoughtful as much as annoyed. Never in his life would he have ever thought of such unnecessary and complicated things. He realized that something in him must have changed over the past few days. Between his botched hunt on the game planet and getting caught, meeting Dah’shay-ny and getting out, and the time he spent with her. . . .

No. _A lot_ had changed. And she was the catalyst.

She was the source of this pain in his chest—whatever it was. She did something. Something profound that altered him. Uprooted him from his core and rocked everything he believed in, everything he ever stood for, fought for. And it only took those few days alone with her to do it.

Alone. Together. Those two words that were completely different and yet now sounded somehow the same.

Dah’shay-ny changed so much about him in their short time together. Whatever he was now wasn’t what he had been before. He was no longer the Y’varaj his sires had born. No longer the same hunter that left the clanship despite the warnings of the arbitrators that a Berserker’s ship had been spotted near the game planet. 

He was something different. Something new. Something she molded and reshaped. Whatever he was now, it was her progeny. Something she created and thus made herself a part of, and now that she was gone Thorn knew there was a piece of himself missing as well.

It was a downright _bizarre_ revelation, but a cathartic one nonetheless. It lifted some of the weight from his shoulders and made it slightly easier to breathe.

He looked at the cord on his wrist again.

Still, in his mind he could hear that something say: _Get rid of it._

On some level deep down, he knew he should probably listen. It made him think of her, yes; that was the point of it. It would be a distraction during a hunt and could get caught on things. Who knows? It might even get him killed one day.

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t get rid of it. Not because he thought it made a good adornment and not because he admired the simple splendor of the little trinket, but because he didn’t want to. Thorn didn’t want to forget about Dah’shay-ny; her or the time he spent with her and what they went through together. She gave it to him as a gift. Something that was an object of courting that belonged to her sires and of such great significance in her life, she gave to him without thought or remorse.

_“I don’t want you to forget about me,”_ she said. He remembered the look of sadness in her eyes when she said those words and it made that thing in his chest hurt again.

He meant it when he told her he never would. Even without it being there to make him think of her with every glance, he still never would have forgotten. But because it was there he had something real to hold onto. Something to look at and know that the days he spent with her, fighting for their survival and proving together that they were hunters worthy of the hunt, and of course the nights he spent holding her in his arms and she taught him a peace and content he had never previously known. . . . Having the decorative band let him know those days were real. That _she_ was real.

He would never forget her for as long as he lived.

Dah’shay-ny. Fearless.

So why didn’t the pain go away even after realizing that?

He wondered. He knew.

They were his old master’s words: _Sometimes when the hunt is over, the scars are all that we have. . . ._

The scars. The memories. There was no difference in them, now. Dah’shay-ny had made them the same. Maybe they would always be the same. The scars would become memories. The memories would become scars.

Funny, and yet not.

Thorn looked up from the ground and returned to the control room. He shut the rear bay doors with his fist and turned the engines on to let the turbines warm up. It would be a long flight back to the clanship.

There was no point in staying any longer. He did what he came to do. Dah’shay-ny made up her mind: she wasn’t going to stay with him. If Thorn knew anything about her by now to make a judgment, he knew that she stuck to whatever decisions she made. She made her choice. Just because he didn’t necessarily agree with it, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t respect it. He would. She deserved that from him.

Thorn breathed in deep and let it out, mentally scolding himself when he realized it sounded somewhat like a dejected sigh. He activated the control panel and ran some scans through the schematics and made sure nothing living decided to crawl into a vital area and interfere with the performance should it be sucked in. When he was satisfied the exterior was in order, he set the scans to review the internal systems where they checked, double-checked, and triple-checked every system component to be sure it was all suited for deep space travel.

With another deep breath and release, Thorn activated the vertical thrusters and felt the brief tremble of liftoff as the ship left the ground and the flight stabilizers kicked in. He swept his eyes across the control panel again and checked for any error alarms, satisfied to see there were none. He was halfway through the process of raising the landing gear when a flash of intuition drew his eyes out the observation window. At first he thought it was just a quick, albeit probably temporary farewell to yet another prey world, but his eyes drew down to the base of the tree line where something reflected in the blue-white glow of the thruster turbines. He thought little of it at first, but then something clicked to recognize a metallic sheen. This was a forested area miles from the nearest civilization. There should be nothing metal out here.

Curious, he looked closer for the source. What he saw at first he almost didn’t recognize. Small with the distance the ship had lifted and tiny by comparison to the surrounding brush, huddled low to the ground in hiding. Any right-minded animal would have fled at first ignition of the deafening engines; whatever was mad enough not to flee had to be out of its _pauk-de_ mind—

The thought stopped there.

His hands stopped moving. The world stood still.

Two-and-two came together and the image of that creature sitting balled up on the ground flipped over in his mind. The faded, dirty, and shredded remains of a red top and smudged, pale blue leggings. A shroud of wavering black that flapped and whipped up behind the gale of the engine put-off. Small forelimbs clasped on the creature’s head, the sheen of dark metal glimmering at its side.

Thorn stood up.

It. . . .

It couldn’t be. . . . There was. . . . It shouldn’t. . . . She couldn’t. . . .

_“Dah’shay-ny. . . .”_

Through some manner of indistinct series of motions, the ship landed again and the engines cut off. Thorn smashed his fist on the release for the rear bay doors. Getting down the corridor was a blur. Arriving at the main doors as they opened was a haze of glaring insignificance over the pounding in his chest. Pounding not with pain—there was no pain—but something else entirely.

He made a step forward as the door stopped but wasn’t prepared when a body collided into his front. Foot braced back to catch and immediately clasped his arms around the small, trembling creature huddled against his chest.

It was all a haze. Disbelief and wary hesitance clouded his mind.

This wasn’t possible. It _couldn’t_ be possible. So how . . . ?

She was shaking. Shaking and trembling and her body felt cold like the icy night. Terrible choking, hiccupping noises rocked her tiny frame. With every ounce of strength her small body could muster, she held onto him tightly and absolutely refused to let go.

It took only a second for the doubt to disappear into the weightlessness of abrupt realization. Thorn locked his arms around her as tightly as he could. His body felt heavy. His legs felt weak. They dropped out from under him and he held her as close as he possibly could, her small frame huddled against his wide, warm, and unimaginably welcoming chest.

Through her sobs and the blind racing of incoherent thoughts in his mind, he heard her saying something. Repeating it over and over, shrill and strained and tense with the swelling in her throat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. . . . I’m so sorry, Thorn. . . .” 

He held the back of her head and his hand disappeared into the warmth beneath the long, flowing, tangled black strands. He pressed his face into her head and caressed her with his mandibles, breathing in that exotic, alien scent that he came to know and love so well. His chest rumbled with purrs as deep and resonant as they had ever been in his entire life, and he held her close and buried himself in her for fear this was all a dream. For fear she would fade away just as quickly as she appeared, and he held onto her as tightly as he could. He let her go once. He would never make that mistake again.

She was here. She was back. Paya, she came back.

_Oh God, he’s here,_ Solita thought, trembling horribly in his arms. _He’s here. He stayed. He—I—_

It was hard to concentrate. It hurt to even think. All she wanted to do was hold him, to press up against him and never let him go and never let him let her go. She was so afraid. Afraid she came too late and lost him forever.

“Thorn,” she whimpered brokenly, voice cracking and trembling, hands clasped around his back like a lifeline and breathed him in with every breath, “I’m sorry. . . . God, I’m s-so sorry. . . .”

It was all she could say, but it wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough. She left him there and it was inexcusable. It made twice now Solita had abandoned Thorn for the sake of personal safety. Unforgivable.

Thorn stroked her gently and purred. The sound rumbled through her mind in such a wonderful, familiar way. It was comfort and ecstasy merged into one and she pressed into it desperately, determined this time to never to let him go. Not now. Not ever again.

Thorn touched her cheek gently and lifted her face. Her cheeks were flushed and red and stained with cold moisture, sniffing and pale pink lips trembling. He brushed a strand of hair that clung to her damp cheek and laid his big palm against it. His hand was warm and smooth and strong. Solita opened her eyes and saw him for the first time since leaving him. His eyes were glowing golden with the faintest sheen of moisture, tusks curled in a soft, soft smile.

_“Dah’shay-ny,”_ Thorn rumbled deeply and watched when her eyes fluttered and pressed his brow against her.

Inexplicable warmth radiated between them, breathing soft and deep and taking each other in the way they always had before, memorizing and renewing all thoughts they once shared and making them new again—stronger, firmer, deeper. All thoughts and feelings and the assurances made real through the smallest, most intimate of exchanges. Thorn held her close and chirred elation and content when her arms reached around his neck and she pressed in as close as their bodies would allow.

He trilled; their eyes shuttered. He breathed, _“Naj Dah’shay-ny. . . .”_

Solita smiled softly. So, so softly. “Yes,” she said, caressing the nape of his neck beneath the warm brass coil, “yours.” And she whispered in turn, _“Naj Y’varaj.”_

As if it were even possible, Thorn’s purrs deepened and mandibles splayed in sheer delight as much as amusement.

He touched her face and shook his head. _“Th-oorrrn.”_

She smiled at that and made a breathy sound something akin to a laugh. Bliss and silence and content passed from one into the other and back in a cycle of complete euphoria.

“I love you,” she whispered breathlessly and opened her eyes. There was a shock of heat in her core and her heart fluttered when Solita realized what she just said, and an even bigger one when she realized just how much she meant it. Shocking, terrifying, and beautiful.

His eyes were soft and radiant as molten amber.

“Do you know what that means?”

Thorn cocked his head and trilled quietly, tusks clacked and slowly shook his head. Solita smiled and huffed a light breath of some bizarre, incommunicable level of winded relief. Shaking her head, she touched his face and stared softly but intently into his eyes. Later, Thorn would come to know this face as one of compassion and adoration, also of complete and utter devotion.  
“I’ll teach you,” she whispered.

Thorn felt the pressure in his chest break suddenly and disappear, leaving him weightless and inexplicably warm. His purr deepened into a low, heavy, thrilling bass.

“I’ll teach you, but only if you’ll let me.”

With no hesitation, Thorn nodded and held her hands tightly within his own. He got to his feet and carefully pulled her with him, purring deep and resonant and took a small step back toward the heart of the ship.

The invitation was warm, welcoming and clear.

_“Dah’shay-ny,”_ he rumbled deeply, _“kh-um.”_

Solita took one careful step forward, then another, and then another until the world that was once her home was nothing more than a place she once lived. Its significance faded in the warmth and the belly of the hunter’s ship. Solita loved her family, always had and always would, but after talking to her father she realized she couldn’t stay. Earth was her home once, but it wasn’t anymore. Home was here, now. With Thorn.

That’s what had changed, she realized. The position of her heart.

_“Home is where the heart is,”_ the expression went.

Solita knew where her heart was, now. It wasn’t on Earth. It wasn’t even within her anymore. Somehow at some point, it had parted from her entirely. Left her for a haven not like the one which housed it once before. One stronger, sturdier, and far better suited for the safety and defense it needed to survive.

_Thorn,_ she thought with a quiet smile. Their fingers entwined as she followed him deeper into the ship. It was a strange world, full of peril and wonder, the awe and the majesty and the simplicity of life at its most raw and unrefined: the world of the hunter, the world that awaited her. She pressed her face into his strong arm and listened to the deep thrum of his low, steady purr. _My heart is with you, now. Take care of it. Never let it wander, because without you I am lost._

She looked up and saw him watching her. A soft, iridescent glow shown from the lights reflecting in his amber eyes. Mandibles curled and clacked silently as he trilled and held onto her in silent declaration, both to himself that this was real and to her that he was here, still here, and would always be here for her.

They stopped walking and Solita reached up. Without thought or hesitation, Thorn leaned down, purrs thrumming deep like a chorus of rapture and solace, and met his brow with hers once again. They breathed each other in deep and let it out slowly, and when Solita wound her arms around his neck and pressed forward Thorn parted his tusks and embraced her as she kissed him, arms bound tight to one another in a silent pledge to their future—together.

_I am home wherever I am, Thorn, so long as I am with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Awu’asa_ – yautjan body armor  
>  _Pauk’de_ – [n.] fucker; [adj.] fucking  
>  _Naj_ – my  
>  _Kh-um_ – “Come.” (attempted English)
> 
> **Songs:**  
>  “Angels Cry (remix)” by Mariah Carey ft. Neon  
> “Diamond Eyes (Boom Lay)” by Shinedown


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the story now ended, I would like to reiterate that this story is rather old and I don't consider it to be a very good representation of my current writing skills. (ie Solita being Mary Sue, the dumb use of song lyrics, unrealistic romantic elements, and inaccurate yautja-ness.) I really want to rewrite this story to make it better, and I want to thank you and everyone who has supported me. I love you! <3

Anna had always hated the cold. Ever since she was young, the rainy season in Guatemala brought her only sickness and chills. When she was a little girl, she lost a baby brother to flu brought on by the dampness and cool air. She had complained much about the heat as a child, but now that she was older Anna found she would sooner face the scorching itch of a thousand hot and humid Hells than be locked in the frigid, biting cage of another northern winter.

No, the cold was never something she was particularly adept at dealing with. As fate would have it, Maine had but one thing in spades, and it was cold.

_I’m getting too fucking old for this,_ Anna thought as she pulled her camouflaged white parka tight, double wrapped her scarf with a Colt .357 wrapped in aluminum foil holstered beneath her left arm, and dead bolted the door behind her.

All this fuss over going to the goddamned mailbox. She knew it was ridiculous; she just stopped caring ages ago.

Stepping out into the white-blanketed morning away from the relative safety of her self-made fortress, Anna was acutely aware of the exposure. The rooftops of the suburban neighborhood were barren if not for the thick, glossy white pillows piled atop them. They blocked her line of sight for several hundred yards in all directions. Backyard fences provided cover but left far too many places for the unwelcomed to hide. A gray haze from last night’s storm hung in the air so thickly an untrained eye might mistake neighbors’ mailboxes for clusters of dogs huddled together beside the street.

Despite Anna’s repulsion to the cold, she could not deny it was the only thing keeping her safe anymore. Snow was loud when walked upon and made covering one’s tracks difficult if not impossible. But more than that, with northern winds wiping down from the coast of Greenland year-round, while Anna detested the cold, so did They.

The ten meter trek from front porch to mailbox was one of the very few times in her daily routine where Anna was forced to expose herself over open terrain. Fuck that _puta_ mailwoman for being too lazy to put the mail on her porch like she had specifically requested.

Glancing left, then right, then left and back again, Anna stepped into the hard crunch of freshly fallen powder and began to move. Her gaze whisked in all directions, eyes to the rooftops and hand hovering inches from Colt. 357 holster tucked inside her parka. The snow layering the rooftops was undisturbed. Anna marched to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, snapped the lid open, crushed the letters in her fist, slammed it shut, and started back to the house.

“Hey there, neighbor!” Nickolas Rivers called out.

Anna sneered outwardly.

Her next-door neighbor. The only living human being within a 500 mile radius with the gall to demand conversation from every unfortunate soul on the face of the Earth.

_De puta madre,_ she thought.

Anna turned sharply as Nickolas Rivers jogged over. Thick snow boots crunched louder than the hydraulic whirr of a garbage compactor in his wake. Chubby cheeks the color of strawberry ice cream grinned ear to ear. Nickolas Rivers was a rotund, middle-aged former security officer with a receding hairline, chipmunk cheeks coated in perpetual stubble he was convinced made him look more rugged, thick sausage fingers, and a crooked nose reminiscent of his days in the service. His gut protruded obscenely over the lip of his trousers like he’d recently devoured an entire watermelon, no chewing. The cold caused his nose to run and speak with a lisp. The only reason Anna chose this neighborhood at all was because she heard she would be sharing a street with a man in close ties to the local police force. She did not expect those ties to be forged through retirement-age reminiscing, poker nights, and Bingo Fridays.

Nickolas Rivers’ hands were wedged deep in his pockets. He smiled with wide Nutcracker teeth, lips pushing his cheeks up until his eyes squinted almost completely shut.

“G’mornin’,” Nickolas gleamed.

Anna did not move, praying her body language would scream the “Fuck off” she so deeply wished to voice.

“Good morning,” she said flatly. After nearly a decade surrounded by people who did not speak a word of Spanish and, at the insistence of the officials responsible for her relocation, Anna no longer had her Guatemalan accent.

“Crazy storm last night, huh?” Nickolas Rivers said.

“Yes.”

“Good thing the wind didn’t pick up anymore, else it coulda’ taken the siding right off my house! Tina Larson down the way had that happen to her last year, poor gal. You know she got her gutters ripped off last week? Blizzard came down so hard it tore ‘em right off! Bless her heart; sometimes I think she gets all the rotten luck. You have any probl’ms ‘ike that yet?”

“Yes.” She did not. “Had my gutters fixed earlier this fall.”

Anna glanced over her shoulder. She checked the rooftops again, impatient for when another human being might give her the mercy of stepping out of their home so Nickolas might maul them with his morning chatter instead. But she would have no such luck, not with this cold.

Nickolas continued on about the snow and how much he hated it but “the grandkids” couldn’t get enough snow days and snowball fights and snow forts and poking each other with broken icicles and building snowmen.

“Did I ever tell ya ‘bout the time Little Joey pegged me in the back o’ the head with a snowball with a pebble in it? Kid’s got one heck of an arm, I tell ya! Gave me a lump the size of a goose egg for a solid week!” Nickolas laughed.

“Yes, you have told me that,” Anna said.

He opened his mouth to begin another riveting tale when Anna stopped him.

“Mr. Rivers, please, I need to get going now. It was nice speaking with you. Have a nice day.”

“Ah, sure thing, neighbor, I—oh! I almost forgot!”

As Nickolas Rivers dug his meaty hands in his cavernous pockets, Anna stepped back, fingering the hilt of the concealed handgun beneath her parka. To her initial surprise, instead of a weapon, Rivers produced a wrinkled snow-dampened bundle of cream-yellow parchment.

“Found this down the road,” he said as he handed it over. “It’s addressed to you. Now, don’t worry, I didn’t look at it. Sorry for the condition, though. Damn snowplow nearly shredded it. Hope it’s not too important. Doesn’t look like the sender knew how to properly package a letter.”

Properly packaged, Anna repeated dubiously in her head. It wasn’t packaged at all. Just loosely folded with no return address and looked ready to disintegrate from the dampness. Anna put it at the bottom of the stack under her arm, thanked Nickolas with a nod, and shuffled around him in a large circle and returned home with a slam.

Anna dead bolted the door three times, chained it, and disarmed then rearmed the security system. The stack of papers dropped on the counter and she went about her morning routine to double check all the windows and doors were properly sealed. Only when she was sufficiently satisfied the house was secure did she brew up a pot of coffee—no cream and heavy on the sugar—and sit down at the counter with the steaming shatter-proof mug and check the stack of mail.

There was little of interest. The newspaper talked about the stock market—the Dow was down again—a local boy rescued four kittens from a box in the snow, a mother of two was suspected of murder and scheduled to go on trial in a few weeks, among other matters. Anna kicked out of her boots and parka but left the Colt in its holster at her side. There was a junk catalog, _Guns & Ammo_ magazine which she set aside to look at later, two bills, and three advertisements for auto, life, and home owners’ insurance which she was not subscribed to.

She came to the parchment last. Mostly done drying, she checked it again in case she had missed the return address, but there was none. Nothing indicated who might have sent it. Her name and home address were handwritten and sloppy and nothing held the page shut except for the weight of its own centerfold. Anna weighed the thickness of the grain against the plain white sheets of its counterparts. She had never felt papyrus before, but if she were to wager a guess it would feel something like this.

_Strange,_ Anna thought.

She unfurled the page slowly, holding it at arm’s length should white powder spill out of it, and pulled it open with a heavy crinkle like construction paper. When no contaminants came rushing out, she brought it closer for examination: the way the page soaked up the ink and held it deep within the grain, the rushed, sloppy hand, and its frayed, fibrous edges yellowed with age. It took a few seconds of staring before the words at the top of the page made sense.

_Hi, mom._

Anna blinked. “Solita?”

\---o---0---o---

_Hi, mom._

_You were right. I’m sorry I never told you that. You were always right and I’m sorry it took me so long to take you seriously. I’m sorry we stopped talking and I’m sorry we never really saw eye to eye._

_I met someone. He’s a good man, but I doubt you would approve. He saved my life and I’m going off the grid to stay with him. Yes, I’ve put a lot of thought into this. I trust him and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I don’t know if I’ll see you again, but rest assured I can take care of myself. I learned from the best, after all. You just worry about yourself now, okay?_

_I’ve already spoken to dad and Rollo. Dad understands, but Rollo has his own family to worry about. You’re the one I worry about most, mom. You taught me to be strong and never to rely on others, that to do a job right sometimes you have to do it yourself. I guess that’s why I’m writing this to you, now. There’s nothing wrong with letting people in once in a while. You taught me to be strong and independent, but everyone needs someone else to rely on once in a while. Let someone in, mom. Make friends. Fall in love again. The world isn’t out to get you. THEY aren’t actually looking for you. Believe me._

_This will probably be our last correspondence. It’s strange, though. This doesn’t feel like a goodbye. Guess that’s a good thing. If I get the chance, I’ll come see you, I promise. Until then, don’t worry about me. I’m hard to kill._

_I love you, mom._

_-Solita “Fearless Eagle” Rowen_

\---o---0---o---

At the bottom of the letter was a line of yautjan script Anna didn’t recognize. She wiped the moisture from the corners of her eyes and got her journal from its safe to translate. The hand was heavy with rough and uneven strokes. She managed a rough translation:

_Kv’var aut r-to, Yin’tek Kale-vo,_ it said.

_Hunt well, Honored Mother._

Anna set it aside and put her face in her hands. “Oh, _mija_.”

\-----------

Obsidian eyes gleamed in the dim light of the trophy room. Solita snapped the mask into its stand on a table cleared just for her. Alongside the bone axe, daggers, rib fragment, and among Hunt trophies of indescribable, monstrous beasts lining the walls, it was probably the smallest thing next to the human skulls. It hardly stood out, but to Solita it was easily the most petrifying.

She stared at it. In its eyes. The dents and divots and jagged scars, aged hue of yellow bone, crusting dirt, and dried splotches of red and yellow-green blood.

Solita thumbed the brow crest and looked at her reflection in those eyes. She smiled.

“I owe you, you know,” Solita said. “Without you, I wouldn’t be here. I was starting to think Earth had nothing for me. Everything was just going downhill. I even contemplated suicide after leaving the Army. I lost my nitch and all purpose I’d ever known. Until you came along, fucked everything up, and gave me my life back.” She dropped her hand. “Whatever Hell you’re in now, I just hope you enjoy the pain.”

Solita deactivated the lights as she left the room. Returning to the cockpit, she draped her arms over the back of the pilot’s seat. Thorn rumbled and she sighed.

“I’ll be all right,” Solita said, more to herself than for him. She stretched over the chair on her tip toes and pressed her brow into the crest of his skull. “Thanks for letting me drop off that letter.”

Thorn nodded. Unable to take his attention from the observation window until they were out of orbit, he purred for her and waited until the ship cleared the gravitational field before activating the autopilot and pulling her into his lap.

Solita let herself be drawn into what she could only describe as a ferocious cuddle. Curling into the hunter’s chest without thought or question, she let herself be held, her hair stroked and toyed between mandibles, content with his heavy hand stroking up and down her back, purr resonating through her bones.

They said nothing for a long time.

Solita looked up.

“So, what now?” she asked, drawing his gaze. “We can’t go back to your clanship. I doubt they’d take too kindly to me.”

It wasn’t a question, but Thorn shook his head in confirmation anyway. It still floored him how much she seemed to know about his culture. Humans did not have the technology for a translator like his; everything Dah-shay-ny knew she would have had to have learned on her own. And that a human knew any of their language at all was shocking in itself. He would have to teach her more before he could properly ask how she came to know so much.

No, returning to his clan was not an option, not so long as Dah’shay-ny was at his side. Humans were prey, not fellow hunters. Best case scenario, if he brought her in as an equal Dah’shay-ny would not be respected by the other females and he would lose all repute with his clan. Whether she proved her prowess or not, she would still be seen as a lesser creature. Worst case, she would be killed and he banished. To hell with saying she was a pet. Thorn bristled with rage at the thought of her being treated with such blatant disrespect. Dah’shay-ny was a huntress and deserved all the veneration of one.

“What are we going to do?” Solita said, her smaller hands warm on his chest, eyes bright.

Thorn turned the chair around and indicated to the navigation array on the dash. Dah’shay-ny looked upon it and he scrolled through the navigation settings until he came upon a life-supporting planet a month’s journey from their current system. Five continental masses with every terrain imaginable, Thorn knew it to have treacherous weather conditions, toxic plant life, and a plethora of giant beasts ripe for the hunting. The same planet Thorn and two other clan mates had their Chiva, he knew it well.

_“Kv’var ell-ast’dhu,”_ Thorn rumbled to his mate, taking her chin in his claws and meeting her fiery brown gaze. _“Kv’var ell-ast’dhu, Dah’shay-ny.”_

_We hunt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kv’var aut r-to, Yin’tek Kale-vo._ \- Hunt well, honored mother.  
>  _Kv’var ell-ast’dhu._ – We hunt.


End file.
